Caffeine and Saccharine
by Minerva Solo
Summary: Jean Paul makes a point of befriending his crush, but Bobby's own feelings are more than friendly. Or they were, but as time has passed things turned positively sour. But now JP's losing his sister again he's getting lonely. Final update.
1. part one

**Caffeine and Saccharine**

_A/N: This is the fic Questions ought to have been. The tone is going to be much more even (walking that wobbly line between angst and fluff) and I know where it's going and what's going to happen when, which is incredibly important. I don't know how long it's going to be, but the boys are going to take things slow._

_Warnings: slash, fluff, angst, language_

_Disclaimers: The X-men belong to marvel, not me, and I am making no money from this (though if people would like to just randomly send me money, unrelated to this or any other piece of fanfiction, feel free!)_

**Part one**

The day had started out better. When Jean Paul had brought up the idea of going for dinner, reminding him that he'd agreed before and ditched him for the empath, Bobby had agreed again. Jean Paul wasn't too bad, and it was just something to eat. Plus, he was rich, always something to look for in people suggesting dinner.

But Alex had overheard. Made some comment about Bobby's taste in women. So Bobby had made some comment about Alex copying him. And they'd descended into sniping for at least half an hour, back and forth, sometimes sarcastic and sometimes simply snarky, on and on until now, hours later, Bobby was still fuming. He didn't want to duck out on Jean Paul twice - the guy could be irritating and arrogant but Bobby didn't want him to think he was actively disliked – but in this mood he'd probably say something he'd regret.

And then the nerves hit. Jean Paul was rich. Jean Paul was used to the best. Jean Paul was going to take them somewhere with thirteen forks and a French menu. Bobby was going to have more in common with the Champagne bucket than with Jean Paul to start with.

"Bobby Drake?" the knock on his door was calm and measured.

"Hey, Jean Paul." Bobby forced himself to sit upright on the bed. "Come in?"

Jean Paul stepped around the door and smiled. To Bobby's infinite relief he wasn't wearing a tux or a top hat and tails. Bobby offered a weak smile in return.

"I don't want to bail on you again, but I'm not feeling up to going out tonight," Bobby told him immediately. "I'm sorry."

"Is this because of Alex?" Jean Paul guessed, leaning on the door frame and folding his arms.

"Yeah, partly," Bobby shrugged. "Look, I'm really sorry, but-"

Jean Paul cut him off with the wave of his hand. "I understand entirely," he said softly. Bobby winced at the barely disguised disappointment on his face. "We can do this some other time, perhaps?"

"Definitely," Bobby nodded firmly. "I don't want you to think I don't want to, Jean Paul. I mean, it would be a great chance to get to know each other. I feel like I don't know anyone around here any more, you know? Bunch of kids and strangers."

"Oui," Jean Paul smiled, but it was still slightly wobbly. Bobby looked away. If this kept up he was going to do a one-eighty and agree out of guilt. The guy didn't have many friends here, Bobby knew, and he'd been pretty put out and being pushed off the active roster in favour of more established X-men. Really, all he had was Annie, and she was taken up with Alex Summers most of the time.

"Look," Bobby said awkwardly, "how about not dinner? I'm not particularly hungry."

Jean Paul turned back to him, having been beginning to make his exit. "Coffee?" he raised an eyebrow.

Bobby had been thinking about going for a beer, but hey, caffeine and saccharine would do just as well. "Sure," he grinned. "I'm just in the mood for an iced something." Jean Paul laughed slightly, obviously unsure if the joke was intended. Bobby forced a grin.

"Jean Paul," he began as he scrambled off the bed and retrieved a coat from over a chair, "I really can't promise to be the best of company. I'm in a really shitty mood."

"You can vent," Jean Paul offered as they made their way down the corridor. "I'm happy to listen."

"I'll bring you down," Bobby warned.

"I am not brought down easily," Jean Paul told him. "I have a somewhat unique sense of perspective to stand on."

Bobby snorted. "True, but don't we all 'round here?"

Jean Paul didn't reply, but the silence wasn't awkward.

* * *

Jean Paul drove and Bobby didn't object. The man had a _nice_ car. Bobby ran his fingers down the sides of the leather seats appreciatively. At times like this he was surprised Jean Paul was single. Attractive, rich, heroic and currently driving at 120 mph with no apparent concern. If Bobby had swung that way he'd have been all over the guy. Hell, if it meant more trips in this thing he'd happily sacrifice his heterosexuality.

"Where are we headed?" Bobby asked as they passed another coffee shop.

"Place I know," Jean Paul said straight faced, then he smirked.

"Duh," Bobby rolled his eyes. "Do I know it?"

"It's a book store," Jean Paul said. "I get free coffee in return for book signings."

"You rich guys are all such misers," Bobby grinned. He frowned. "Why do they want you to sign books?"

"I sign copies of _my_ book," Jean Paul said, sounding slightly bemused. "They can sell them for more."

"You wrote a book?" Bobby blinked. "What's it about?"

"It's an autobiography." Jean Paul shot him a look. "You did not know?"

"No." Bobby shook his head and ran a hand through his tousled hair. "Oh god, what an idiot," he laughed at himself. "This would be why everyone knows you're gay, isn't it? Because you published a damn _book_ about it."

"You didn't know?" The Canadian had gone from bemused to simply confused.

"Not until Annie told me, night before Alex and Lorna's non-wedding." Bobby laughed and sat back in his seat. "I guess this is a hint I should read more, huh?"

"You didn't realise anyway?" Jean Paul shot him another glance.

"It's not as though we've exactly hung out, is it?" Bobby shrugged, a little defensively. "How was I meant to know? You don't exactly have it painted on your forehead. I was under the impression that there was something going on between you and Annie for a while there."

Jean Paul laughed. Internally he was bubbling with questions, all too forward to ask out loud. He'd have to quiz Annie later on how Bobby had reacted. It couldn't have been too bad, if Bobby was willing to get in a car and go out with him. _Not a date_, he reminded himself sternly. It felt like it, slightly. He was certainly working as hard to impress Bobby as he would have an actual date.

He suddenly realised that he was about to shoot past the turning. Bobby jerked forwards in his seat and Jean Paul slammed the breaks on and skidding into the correct lane. There was an angry beep from somewhere behind them, but Jean Paul ignored it. He could see Bobby out of the corner of his eye, and he was grinning manically.

There was parking on the street near the store. As Jean Paul pulled up he asked casually, "You like the car?"

"I love it," Bobby enthused. "I think I'm sexually attracted to it. Is there a word for that?"

"Male, I think," Jean Paul chuckled.

"How much she cost you?" Bobby ran a finger along the dark wood dashboard.

"Too much," Jean Paul told him, "and worth every penny."

"I'll say," Bobby whistled softly. "How fast can she go?"

They climbed out slowly, allowing Bobby to continue in his adoration of the car. Jean Paul was amused to see that he was physically petting it.

"I've got her up to one fifty," Jean Paul smiled. "Crossing Canada."

"Can we forget the coffee and stay with the car?" Bobby asked, eyebrows raised in innocent pleading.

"Come on," Jean Paul pressed the button on the key and Bobby jumped as the locks clicked down. With a final sigh and a small wave, Bobby followed Jean Paul along the sidewalk.

"What kind of bookshop is open at this time?" he asked, trotting slightly to keep up with the speedster, who was entirely unaware that he was walking at what most people would deem a swift jog. Nerves did that to him.

"Oh, it is more than half coffee shop these days," Jean Paul smiled. "They quite often have live music, or readings. Very... bohemian."

"Do you have to do that finger clicking thing instead of clapping?" Bobby asked. "I've always had trouble snapping my fingers."

"It is not quite that bohemian," Jean Paul reassured him.

"Pity," Bobby grinned. "Always wanted to try that thing."

Jean Paul pushed open an unassuming door and led the way up an airy fight of stairs. The walls were covered with posters advertising literary events, and Bobby could see rows of books behind smoked glass. Apparently they closed the bookshop entirely in the evenings. It was a shame; he'd been hoping to pick up a copy of Jean Paul's book while he was here.

The coffee shop covered half of the upper storey, a thin glass barrier between the shop and the space over the book shop. The walls and ceiling, even the carpet, had quotes in elegant scripts scrawling across them, while the tables and chairs where covered with lacquered newspapers. Bobby let out a delighted squeak when he spotted a paper from the day he was born, and blushed when Jean Paul shot him an odd look.

So maybe now he was glad he'd come. Already his mood had improved. There was that beautiful car, and then there was this place. Sophisticated, but not intimidating. It reminded him of his time as a student. In one corner a girl with a guitar was singing classic ballads in an amazingly husky voice. She caught his eye as he followed Jean Paul towards the counter, and winked.

Yes, this had definitely been a good idea.

Jean Paul was already chatting to the girl behind the counter when Bobby caught up. He ordered a frappacino and looked about for a table. Then the other counter caught his eye.

"You know how I said I wasn't hungry," Bobby sighed.

"Yes," Jean Paul smirked.

"Well, do you get the cream buns free too?"

"Help yourself," Jean Paul laughed.

Bobby grabbed a light pastry bun, sliced neatly in half and filled with cream. "You're mine now," he told it.

"Talking to your food?" Jean Paul raised an amused eyebrow.

"It talks back!" Bobby objected, holding up the bun in one hand, thumb underneath and fingers on top. With a bit of careful manipulation he had it opening and closing like the mouth of a puppet in time with his words: "Help meeeee!"

Jean Paul laughed hard enough to make him lean on the counter, wondering inside when this kind of childish play-with-food behaviour had become remotely amusing to him. As Bobby wandered off to find a table he wiped his eyes and turned back to the girl behind the counter.

"You've struck gold with that one," she commented.

"Oh, we're not together," Jean Paul said hastily.

She looked up at him coyly through her fringe. "Then _boy_ but you got it bad."

Jean Paul sighed. "When did I start wearing my heart on my sleeve?" He took the coffee she handed him. "Put this on my tab, oui?"

"Only you could get a tab at a coffee shop," she grinned.

"Only I would want one," he smiled back.

He found Bobby at a table next to the barrier, with a good view of the singer. He wasn't, surprisingly enough, looking at her though. He grinned as Jean Paul sat down.

"See, this is why I never spotted you were gay. You were completely flirting with that girl," he teased.

"I was not," Jean Paul told him. "I was upholding your sexuality." Bobby looked blank. "She thought we were a couple."

"I should be so lucky," Bobby snorted. It was Jean Paul's turn to look blank. "I haven't had a date in god knows how long," Bobby explained, "and I'm giving up on ever having another one. Who wants a man made of ice?" His bitterness shocked Jean Paul, and it seemed to shock himself as well, as he frowned and shook his head. "Never mind, eh? What about you, got anyone special?"

"Me? No," Jean Paul laughed, used to the bitterness in his own voice. "I have probably a worse track record than you when it concerns my love life."

"Ever date someone who changed sex unexpectedly?" Bobby asked, confident he had the trump card.

"Yes, actually. Sasquatch died a man, returned as a woman." Jean Paul paused. "Though we never actually dated. I seem to have a knack for falling for straight men."

"Ouch," Bobby offered. He seemed to think for a moment. "The Xavier Institute's full of straight men," he said slowly.

Jean Paul held up a hand. "Do not go there, mon ami."

"So you _do_ have your eye on someone!" Bobby laughed. "Oh, please let it be Warren."

"Warren? Pull the other one!" Jean Paul scoffed. "My taste may be unfortunate, but it's not _bad_."

"Hey!" Bobby sat up. "He is one of my best friends."

"Sorry, _desolee_," Jean Paul waved a hand. "But I was so ready to believe the stories in the papers were untrue, and he proved every tabloid right."

"He does worry about his business," Bobby said awkwardly. "It's just huge. He would have to quit the X-men entirely just to make some sort of dent on the surface."

"_I_ know more about his business than he does, and I have a very busy life," Jean Paul said dismissively. "Though now I have to sell my stocks – I can't keep them in Worthington Industries now I know where my money is going. They were doing well too."

Bobby shook his head. "It's too stable. You won't make much with Worthington Industries. It's reliable, but..." he shrugged. "Maybe you're right, maybe Warren ought to spend more time running the whole thing. There are some areas where the profit margins could be increased exponentially."

"How do you know this?" Jean Paul cocked an eyebrow.

"I'm an accountant. Over the years I've ended up doing almost everyone's accounts at some point or another. There's some money in Warren's business that's just disappearing."

"Yes, on anti-mutant organisations," Jean Paul snorted. In an attempt to change the subject, he went on, "so, does Xavier have you doing the X-corporations accounts?"

"When it was smaller, sometimes," Bobby scowled at his iced coffee. "He always had another two or three accountants doing it as well, at ten times what he'd pay me. Never hid it – it was right there in the accounts. Doesn't trust me with it any more, and when I suggested Scott let me take over the school's accounts he actually laughed in my face. I did a degree in this. I spent time and money learning and training to be an accountant. I _wanted _to, which none of them _ever_ get. Why don't they take me seriously?"

And in half a cup of coffee, they'd found the root of nearly all Bobby's frustrations.


	2. part two

**Part two**

Jean Paul let Bobby rant. He agreed with most of it. It wasn't just that his team mates treated him like a kid, it was that they never took a suggestion seriously. When he tried to involve himself further he got told he wasn't serious enough, but when he was serious he was completely ignored. The Institute was filling up with virtual strangers, and they were treating Bobby like a kid too, because everyone else did. No one noticed if he was in a bad mood or asked what was wrong if his humour was more cruel than funny. He'd been the second X-man; he'd been what made them the X-_men_. He'd been doing this longer than most of the people institute had known they were mutants. He'd faced enemies they couldn't imagine, and he hadn't faltered. He'd found time for a series of relationships and university, and he'd lived with a father who hated him for his mutation. He'd actively fought some of the most anti-mutant legislation and he'd lived through some of the worst times, past, present and future, for mutants.

"And now I teach accountancy and get mostly ignored," Bobby finished morosely. "Seriously, it takes the kitchen staff to find out I've got a secondary mutation."

"You did hide it," Jean Paul said softly.

"I was also a complete bastard to everyone, including you," Bobby pointed out. "It's generally a good sign that I'm not the happy, perky, funny Bobby Drake people are used to."

"Are you that person at all?" Jean Paul asked, raise a calm eyebrow.

Bobby laughed. "Yeah, mostly. I like making people laugh and I try and make a point of getting on with everyone. People can use humour as something other than a defence mechanism."

"True," Jean Paul smiled. "Would you like some more coffee?"

Bobby glanced down at his cup. "Nah," he shook his head casually. "Don't want to be bouncing around all night."

Jean Paul nodded. "It is getting late," he observed.

Bobby glanced over at the clock mounted on the wall. For some reason, Jean Paul found the fact he didn't wear a watch endearing. It would have infuriated Bobby to know it was because it gave him a slightly childlike quality, too spontaneous to bother with keeping track of time. But then, Jean Paul found a lot of aspects of Bobby Drake endearing, both outer child and inner adult.

"Wow," Bobby murmured. "I've been ranting at you for _hours_. You should have said something!"

"I hardly minded." Jean Paul leant back in his chair. "I agree with most of your points."

"I did warn you I'd dump all my problems on you," Bobby sighed. "Never meant to actually do it though."

"The X-men would function much better, in my opinion, if people 'dumped' their problems on each other more often." Jean Paul sipped at the last of his luke warm mocha. "Everyone is too self involved."

He didn't like that Bobby laughed at that, but he knew he had no ground to stand on. And Bobby was smiling at him, sucking the last of the cream from the bun off of his fingers with a sensuous touch that Jean Paul would have sworn was meant to be deliberately provocative, had it been anyone else doing it. He could feel his heart speeding up, and he smiled back warmly.

"We have to do this again," he said, standing up.

"I can't see what you got out of it," Bobby grinned, "but yeah, this was fun. Or, you know, good. Probably not so much fun for you."

"No," Jean Paul said reassuringly, "it was fun. I enjoy getting to know you. I feel... privileged. I don't think you show this side to many people."

"No, I guess I don't." Bobby dropped his head shyly. "Don't tell Hank and Warren and the others what I said, okay? I made it sound like they were all terrible people, but I know they're all involved in their own things right now. The world doesn't revolve round Bobby Drake."

_Mine does_, Jean Paul thought, surprising himself. The girl at the counter (replaced while they were talking by a teenaged boy) was right, and so was Annie. He had it _bad_. And Bobby was straight. Lonely, but still straight.

"Earlier," Jean Paul said as they found the car, "you said you dated someone who changed gender, without warning."

"Yeah," Bobby looked surprised. "And?"

"I was just wondering," Jean Paul explained "Who, and when?"

"Oh, a while ago," Bobby laughed. "She was called Cloud. It later turned out she wasn't even human, and her two 'bodies' were car crash victims. I freaked out when she switched the first time, badly. I was lucky she even spoke to me after that. It destroyed our relationship but she let me help her find out the truth. She was upset because she didn't know what gender she actually." Bobby sighed heavily. "And then we learned it was irrelevant."

"Did you love her?" Jean Paul asked quietly.

"Not enough to accept her as a him." Bobby's voice was sharp. "It doesn't make me a homophobe, though."

"I didn't mean to imply that you were," Jean Paul said dryly, glancing at himself to emphasise his point. Bobby relaxed and smiled. Still, it was disheartening. Jean Paul had for a moment cherished the hope that Bobby might be bisexual, or at least open minded. From the way he told it he wasn't, or not in the way Jean Paul was hoping. Even love wasn't enough for Bobby to accept a man.

So he pushed the thoughts away and climbed into the car. Under all the bitterness and drama, he was a practical man. When he found himself pinning so many hopes on an unobtainable crush he knew it was time to extinguish that crush. Hard, but not impossible. It would have helped if he hadn't just made some kind of friendly commitment to Bobby, allowing himself to become the person Bobby vented to. Still, there was always a chance that this once would be enough, and they'd go back to their only-seeing-each-other-when-Jean-Paul-felt-like-a-bit-of-stalking way of life.

He watched Bobby join him in the car, broad shoulder and narrow waist and firm buttocks and tousled hair. Bobby caught him watching, and flashed him a grin. He flashed it back, but took a moment longer to peel his eyes away.

As they drove home, they were mostly silent. Bobby clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, searching for something to talk about. He watched Jean Paul, looking him over a few times. Really not a bad looking man, all things considered. Oddly single. Bobby's eyes trailed along him, pausing in his lap. He frowned. That looked... odd. Seatbelt seemed to have done something funny to Jean Paul's pants.

Oh. Oh. Bobby looked away sharply, aware that he'd been staring, blushing to the tips of his ears. Thank god Jean Paul was concentrating on driving. Obviously thinking about something else, though. On the other hand, it was a very sexy car. Bobby's lips curled in an unconscious smile as he caresses the inlay on the door. If he saved he could have something like this. Wouldn't take long either. Running his tongue over his teeth and his mind over his financial holdings, Bobby could see just what he'd have to sell to buy a beautiful beast.

He could also see something through the window and with a startled gulp he yelped, "Stop the car!"

Jean Paul's mind froze up. He hadn't felt such blind panic in a long time. It was stupid, he knew. Just a crush. Just a guy. And if Bobby was so upset he wanted to walk home, so be it.

Bobby repeated his command, and Jean Paul pulled over, mind racing and at the same time wholly blank. When Bobby leapt out of the car Jean Paul followed on instinct. There were no recriminations or hurled abuse. Bobby was sprinting away, ducking between cars and ignoring them as best as he could. Jean Paul heard brakes squealing too close, and he _moved_.

When the world settled to its normal pace Bobby was cold in his arms and still running, dragging Jean Paul with him back the way they'd come. Finally something clicked in Jean Paul's mind, and he realised this had nothing to do with him. Bobby, now completely iced up, ducked into an alley perpendicular to the main road. Jean Paul followed.

A girl was pressed against the wall, a gun in her mouth and her panties on the floor. The man between her legs seemed to be struggling with his fly, which gave Jean Paul all the time he needed to zip along the wall and past him, the girl safe in his arms. The thug just stared, jeans now collapsing towards his ankles, at the empty space in front of him. Another man, leaning against a wall nursing an erection most men would have been proud of though the white cotton of this underpants, blinked stupidly. He actually did a double take when he saw Jean Paul further along the alley, girl in hand. he may have been smart enough to undo his own flies, but he obviously wasn't an Einstein. Hell, he wasn't even a 'Cleetus the slack jawed yokel'.

She struggled in his arms, showing considerably more fight than she had a moment before. Jean Paul winced as teeth cut flesh.

"It's alright," he hissed. "It's alright, I'm not going to hurt you. I'm gay," he blurted finally. She stopped fighting, though Jean Paul wasn't whether it was because she felt safer or because she was simply surprised. It had been a rather sudden announcement. "I am Northstar," he went on, keeping his voice level, "and that is my friend Iceman. We are X-men. We came to help you."

She was limp in his arms. "You're that man on the book my sister got me last Christmas," she managed eventually. "That gay mutant guy from Canada."

"Yes," Jean Paul smiled at her. "Jean Paul Beaubier."

"Bonjour," she mispronounced.

"The police are on their way," Bobby announced from the other end of the alley. The thug's friend was still shooting at him, but it caused more damage to Bobby's clothes than to his icy torso. Each time a chunk of his abdomen or chest shattered under impact it reformed almost immediately. He laughed slightly.

"Look, mutie freak," the first guy spat, "you don't know nothin' 'bout what's going on here."

"He was trying to rape me!" the girl shrieked, still resting against Jean Paul's chest. "Don't let him tell you otherwise!"

"Don't worry miss," Bobby reassured her. "I saw what was going on."

"Did you see that wedding ring?" the thug demanded. "Did you see that means she belongs to me?"

"That doesn't mean you can rape her," Bobby said, voice colder than his body. A chill shot through Jean Paul, though. Legally, that made this whole thing a much messier issue.

"I'm sorry, did I say you could leave?" Bobby snapped as the second man edged along the wall. It was just as well he was wearing thick boots because the amount of ice Bobby coated his lower legs in would have given him frostbite before the police arrived. And they were surprisingly prompt, in Jean Paul's opinion. Perhaps he'd just been given a distorted view of the American police, being a foreigner. After all, both were in good shape, and there wasn't a doughnut in sight. It struck Jean Paul than he'd possibly watched a few too many episodes of 'The Simpsons' in his attempt to hang around near Bobby.

He spoke to the policemen, gave his name where relevant, talked about standing as a witness in court and gave the victim one last hand squeeze, a sort of 'good luck, I hope you're okay, if I weren't gay I'd happily go home with you tonight as you seem surprisingly keen for a woman who almost got raped by her husband, but who am I to judge, thank god I'm gay, huh?' gesture. And he didn't think any further about it.

They were back in the car when Bobby asked, softly, "They say anything to you 'bout being a witness?"

"Oui," Jean Paul said, concentrating on the speedometer. The police station was just off their route back, and currently the officers from earlier were tucked neatly behind them.

It occurred to him that Bobby had fallen silent, and for once it wasn't because he was hitting on the car. He risked a glance and flinched internally at the sight of Bobby curled up like a young child, feet on the seat and head on his knees, staring out of the window. It wasn't just that any and all muck from the alley would now be working its way into the leather interior either. The boy looked like someone had explained in great detail, very rationally and logically so that it was hard to argue, that he was the most pathetic thing on the planet. He sniffed.

"Do your parents know you're a mutant?" Jean Paul said helplessly, aware how unfamiliar this territory was.

"What? Oh, yeah," Bobby managed a small smile. "'sjust the rest of the world I'm worried about."

"It will be fine," Jean Paul insisted calmly. "It is not like any one is going to accuse you of cheating in international sporting events or anything." It earned him a laugh, if a weak one. But then, it was a pretty weak attempt at a joke.

"I know," Bobby sighed and stretched out again. "It's just... with everything else, you know? It's just that. Why now, I guess, why me? You know?"

"Oui."

"Who knows, maybe we won't even get called or something. Or they won't ask about stopping them. And, well, it's not as though my secondary mutation's got anything to do with it at all, so at least that won't come up, and that's really what I'm worried about. Kinda."

"It is a big step," Jean Paul reassured him vaguely. "But when you are on the other side it will look tiny. Like cliffs look taller from the top."

"You mean when you have to jump? Yeah, they do. And I'll take your word for it, because you've probably got more experience at this than any one else, right?" Bobby looked hopeful.

"Of course," Jean Paul said with a confidence he didn't feel.

The rest of the drive past in silence. Maybe it wasn't uncomfortable, but it wasn't the kind of silence you share with a close friend or lover when there's nothing to say. It felt like there was all too much to say, but Jean Paul put that down to his own tortured libido-driven conscience. Besides, they weren't close. Not really. No matter how much Jean Paul might like to think they were. Not yet.

Jean Paul pulled up in front of the mansion to let Bobby out, which seemed to amuse Bobby. The last grin he flashed Jean Paul as he thanked him for the night was the most genuine Jean Paul had seen on him all evening. Sitting there, watching Bobby climb the steps two at a time, the moment wasn't lost on Jean Paul. A hundred movies with a hundred teenage couples contained this scene, the handsome jock dropping off the pretty cheerleader back at her house, polite and gentlemanly and embedded in the kind of fifties imagery the US seemed to thrive on.

Back when homosexuality was illegal and mutants were only found in comics that cost a dime and freak shows that cost a quarter.


	3. part three

**Part Three**

_This took longer than expected. Long enough to fool people into thinking I was done with this fic, which scared me a bit. I'm more used to people thinking I'm not done with a fic, no matter how emphatically I finish it. This is likely to go on for a while,a nd with my other commitments it's going to be a slow update, I'm afraid. But hey, you should see how long I've made some people wait for updates of Dolor Draconum (Harry Potter) and Once Upon a Nightmare (Weiss Kreuz). And is going to be no where near as long as either._

_I hope._

He'd barely opened the register when he was called from his first class of the morning. Jean Paul followed a nervous student through the corridors until they reach Professor Xavier's office, where another nervous student was hastily scuttling away. So, Bobby was already inside then.

Bobby was reading a paper, eyebrows knitted. Jean Paul sighed internally.

"I didn't think that would make the papers," he said.

"You gave her your name," Xavier pointed out calmly.

"She had already recognised me," Jean Paul shrugged it off. "One of those books you get for Christmas that lives in the shelves at the top of the stairs and is never read."

"It's highly likely that you'll both be called as witnesses," Xavier told them both. Bobby laid the paper on the desk to give Charles his full attention. "This means Bobby will be outed as a mutant, among other things."

"We talked about that last night," Jean Paul said, and then paused to let Bobby take over. When he didn't, Jean Paul went on, "I have no problem with testifying, but if Bobby's changed his mind they can't force him."

"Do you mind if I ring my father, now?" Bobby asked, voice strained. "He reads this paper."

"He's fully aware that you're a mutant," Xavier reminded him.

"Yeah, but the fact I'm described as Jean Paul's boyfriend is going to come as a bit of a shock, don't you think?"

"May I have a look at that?" Jean Paul asked, already reaching for the paper. Neither of the others bothered reply.

"Wait until we're done here, Bobby," Xavier was saying. "While I have no objections to what you did, stepping in to help this young woman, it is important to remember that the X-men do not have the time or the resources to focus on individuals in this way. We do not want to present that kind of image to the public; we can't afford to. This falls under the jurisdiction of the police-"

"Who were not there," Jean Paul cut in angrily. "We were."

"Obviously. But you must bear in mind that we do not want to create animosity in the law enforcement community."

"There was not any," Jean Paul interrupted again. "They were grateful. It is the duty of those with powers to help people against _all_ threats. We can not just pick on those our own size."

"We are not an international police force," Xavier snapped back. "The police deal with human crimes, we deal with mutant crimes."

"They are all crimes. They all end in prison, or ought to. They all make the victims suffer as much." Jean Paul was on his feet now. The thumped the desk with one hand for emphasis. "We must work to halt _all_ crimes."

"We can't."

Later Jean Paul suspected the professor of using his telepathy to add that sense of finality to his statement, but in truth he couldn't have argued against it any way. He knew they couldn't save every person from every thing. In his mind, though, that didn't mean they should stop trying. Would they really be raising false hopes?

"Look," Bobby had said after a prolonged silence, "it doesn't really matter anyway. The chances of it happening again a pretty low, and it's probably good to show we're not so, well, insular, as the papers like to make out. There'll be the trial, and we'll testify if we're called on to testify, and the guy will be put away and that will be that."

"These things are never that simple, Bobby, but for now I agree." What with, the Professor didn't make clear. "Now we are the X-corporation, though, you must consider how your actions will look to other people."

"Gay, apparently," Bobby jabbed an accusing finger at the crumbled paper.

"It's all PR, n'est ce pas?" Jean Paul snorted. "What do they call it, spin."

"Yes, Jean Paul," Xavier said. "Because we are not just thinking of ourselves, or those like us. We are thinking of the future of humanity. We need people to accept mutants, or we will instigate the kind of civil war Magneto always wanted. We can't solve the world's problems, but neither are _we_ one. This is the message we must convey with our every word and action."

Jean Paul couldn't bring himself to answer. It was so firmly against his personal beliefs that it left him slightly nauseous. The only message he'd tried to convey in his life was that he was human too. There was a touch of something subtle and, in Jean Paul's mind, wrong about Xavier's views. They had the ring of apartheid about them.

He took the newspaper with him as they left, but couldn't bring himself to read it. Technically, his class was still in session, but Emma Frost was substituting now and he didn't feel like taking up the mantle again until he had to. Instead, his feet took him to the staff kitchen. He settled at the table with a mug of coffee and his own newspaper, a national edition that contained no mention of his and Bobby's escapades, though it probably would by the end of the week. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut. Why did life have to be so damn _awkward_?

Bobby's voice carried from the next room, using the general line to call his father.

"I know what it says- no, no would you just let me finish, father? I _know_ what it says, and they got it wrong."

"I'm not. I know _he's_ gay."

"Oh come on, of course he isn't."

"Okay, one, I was never dating Rogue, and two, you have no right to dictate who I date."

"I'm not gay."

"I'm not g-"

"I'm not a fucking faggot!"

Jean Paul winced.

"Oh, so _now_ we're talking the same language." The bitterness in Bobby's voice soothed Jean Paul's shattered nerves slightly.

"Well, I didn't want to do this either. It was bad enough having you on my back about being a mutant."

"I wouldn't expect any less of you." The dry, tired tone of Bobby's voice worried Jean Paul. He recognised it as the way _he_ spoke.

"Of course I'll come up. It's just been chaotic, okay?"

"Oh come _on_, didn't it occur to you that if I'd been even slightly that way inclined I'd have quit on women a long time ago? You know my luck."

It hurt Jean Paul to hear the subject so casually dismissed. Bobby was surprisingly secure in his sexuality.

"Oh, no, Alex went off with the school nurse."

"Yeah, right in the middle of the wedding."

"She wasn't interested. Almost killed me, like everyone else. Haven't seen much of her since. She's around, but I'm pretty much avoiding her."

"Yeah, I'll call. I'll come up and visit, too, when I've got more time."

"Good b- Bastard!" Bobby stormed into the kitchen and was halfway out of the opposite door before he noticed Jean Paul, coffee in hand and paper spread across the table. He came to an abrupt standstill, and his cheeks began to flame.

"You shouldn't have had to hear that," he muttered weakly.

"I should not have listened," Jean dismissed it, purposely imperfectly hiding a slight smile behind his coffee.

"My father's just so, so, graah!" Bobby waved his hands in wordless frustration. "You know?" he added helplessly.

"I can imagine," Jean Paul told him.

"He can be such a bigot. I spent years trying to please him, and always giving up. When I finally quit on him altogether he decides that perhaps it's okay and stands up for mutants and gets shot for it." Bobby clutched at his hair. "And I don't know whether I'm coming or going with him and I haven't been able to bring myself to visit since-" He stopped so abruptly that Jean Paul panicked for a moment, thinking some tragedy had just occurred behind him on the kitchen counter.

Then it clicked. "Since the secondary mutation," Jean Paul finished for him, eyes falling on the door to the deep freezer in the corner of the room.

Bobby's eyes followed his gaze as well and he visibly recoiled. Jean Paul couldn't keep the concern from his face and in response Bobby sat down across from him at the table, waiting for a question. When Jean Paul didn't say anything he let his head fall forwards on to the table with a 'thunk'.

"What if I'm dying?" he said quietly, voice muffed by the wood of the table. One hand came up to rest on the surface, fingers digging into ancient grooves. "I keep thinking that if I go there, it might be my last visit. Ever. And I don't know what I'd say."

Jean Paul's heart constricted. Unthinkingly he reached out and grabbed the hand resting on the table, letting the fingers dig into his flesh instead. Bobby squeezed his hand and sat up.

"You have cereal on your forehead," Jean Paul told him helplessly. "I think it is that sugary stuff Jubilation enjoys."

Bobby ran his free hand across his forehead knocking sugary pellets away. "She shoulda cleaned the table if she spilt stuff," he said weakly.

"I do not think you are dying," Jean Paul said calmly, standing up to grab a damp cloth to swipe the table with. It physically hurt to let go of Bobby's hand. "Neither Annie nor Hank suggested such, did they?"

"Nah, guess not."

"And they would know, would they not?" Jean Paul cocked an eyebrow.

"Well, yeah," Bobby conceded. "But it's still a possibility."

"It always has been, in this business."

"True," Bobby said philosophically. "But I'm still turning to ice and it still sucks," he finished glumly.

"And for that, mon ami, I have no answer."

"Jean Paul, struck dumb. Blow the trumpets and start the parade, a miracle has occurred," Bobby said, but he didn't even attempt to smile. It broke Jean Paul's heart. He hated not being able to help. He hated looking at someone and knowing there was nothing he could do to ease the torture, the pain, the eventual eternity they saw stretching out before them. Not Jeanne Marie, not Joanne, and not Bobby.

"Is it inappropriate to ask you out for coffee again?" he said quietly. It took Bobby a moment to realise he had been meant to hear it.

"Yes, I mean... no, it's not appropriate... inappropriate..." Bobby trailed off, scowling at his mouth as best he could, which sent him a little cross-eyed. Jean Paul chuckled dryly. "Coffee good. Bobby want. Hulk smash," Bobby gave in, one corner of his mouth lifting this time in self-depreciating humour. It wasn't Bobby at his best, but it was better than the flat sarcasm.

"This evening?" Jean Paul tried to keep the relief and gratitude from flooding his face. Here, finally, was something he could do.

"When do you finish teaching today?" Bobby asked, leaning forwards.

"About four, oui, four," Jean Paul said, running through his timetable mentally. There was a large red area indicating the amount of marking he had to do and the space he had to do it in, space he was giving up for Bobby. Well, it wasn't as though the kids cared what they got on some essay they'd handed in weeks ago, right? Most of them hadn't even cared enough to do it.

"We could get something to eat together," Bobby suggested. Jean Paul tried to ignore the portion of his mind that added 'shyly' to that action.

"Do you have anywhere in mind?" Jean Paul managed.

"Oh, the same place as last night," Bobby said hurriedly. "I just noticed they did sandwiches and stuff, and I thought..." he shook his head. "Nah, stupid idea really."

"Now you have to tell me," Jean Paul smirked.

"Have you read Rebecca?" Bobby asked, taking Jean Paul by surprise.

"No, have you?" Jean Paul cocked an eyebrow.

"Well, no," Bobby grinned. "But it was on telly the other night. Just that whole thing with the sandwiches and scones and cakes and tea, you know? Looked so... civilised. High tea. Something that's been done for centuries, undisturbed."

Jean Paul soon lost the thread of what Bobby was saying, but he smiled and nodded like he understood and imagined Bobby with cream and jelly - no, jam, this was some English fantasy after all – with cream and jam smeared around his mouth, dropping crumbs into a cup of tea.

"-like before mutants were even a concept. Before evolution. I don't know, it was just an idea. I read Wind in the Willows once and spent months pining for a boat, because it seemed so civilised and old fashioned. Maybe I'm one of those reincarnated dealies, don't belong here and now at all."

It was like the previous night, Jean Paul realised. There was something about Bobby that harked back to earlier eras and simpler times, when girls grew up to wantingto be housewives and boys to be soldiers and everyone believed politicians. It was the name, he decided. You almost never met any Bobbys these days. All Roberts were Robs. Bobby was a name that summoned up boys with skinned knees and sunburnt noses with fish in jamjars, young men in jackets and too much hair wax with girls in long skirts on their arm, men in tweeds with a newspaper under one arm and a long umbrella under the other. Jean Paul couldn't imagine Bobby playing with Playstations or watching gory horror films or swearing like a sailor at thirteen. He wasn't that much older than some of the students, but he had so little in common with them. He'd been Brought Up Differently.

Jean Paul realised he'd been staring at the freckles on Bobby's nose with such an intensity that Bobby had unconsciously raised a hand to hide his face. "JP?" Bobby said nervously.

Jean Paul blinked and blushed. It was a small wonder that _Bobby_ wasn't aware of his crush, let alone every person who saw them together.

"I was distracted," Jean Paul admitted. "Lost in thought."

"Ah, cool." Bobby smiled crookedly. "Were you listening for the bit when I realised tonight probably wouldn't be good?"

"No, no I was not listening for that bit," Jean Paul sighed, aware that by now the tips of his ears were probably scarlet. Bobby didn't sound too offended, though. Jean Paul really didn't want to hurt him. "Though it is probably just as well. I have essays to mark I have been putting off for far too long."

"Same here," Bobby told him. "But we really have to get coffee soon."

"Yes, we must," Jean Paul nodded firmly.

Bobby frowned. "Don't you have a class now?"

"Oh, Emma Frost was coveri-" Jean Paul saw the clock. "Merde, yes. I will see you later," he grimaced, pulling himself out of his chair.

"Yeah, sure." Bobby stayed sitting, and as Jean Paul left he noticed that painfully introspective look slide back over the normally carefree face. Bobby missed Jean Paul's concern by a split second, but he did make certain the man was gone before wandering over to the door in the corner and climbing into the deep freezer.


	4. part four

**Part Four**

_A/N: Simply put, I don't know a lot about American law courts, and I couldn't find any websites willing to explain it in the basic kind of terms I needed, like layout, and what happens if someone falls suddenly ill. So if you spot any issues with this, please bring it up in the comments. I _want_ to know. And if I've fallen into English terminology (I'm suddenly wondering if 'judge' is right for __America__), again, let me know. Thanks._

It wasn't how Bobby had imagined it. It wasn't how it was on television. The room was really quite plain, tucked in the back of a town hall, a few makeshift benches for the people watching and a high table for the Judge. And this little stand for him, in his smart suit bought days before and the shoes he wished he'd polished now. At least he wasn't sweating. He'd always been able to control that easily.

Jean Paul had been smiling serenely, last time Bobby had seen him, nowhere near as nervous. But then, he wasn't about to announce his genetic makeup for all to hear. No matter how often he reminded himself that it didn't matter who knew Bobby Drake was Iceman those nerves crept up on him. And it had been with starting guilt that he'd lied and agreed when Hank asked sympathetically if it was his family he was worried about.

And of course now he was thinking about every bad thing he'd done in his life, every little guilt inspiring thought and action. He thought about icing Scott's suit before an early date with Jean, he thought about fooling Hank into thinking there was an emergency to get him up before dawn, he thought about snapping at Kurt and winding up Logan and showering with War-

He fought the blush and reminded himself he wasn't on trial. This was just an extension of their usual activities, right? This was the bit the X-men weren't usually involved in. Supervillians didn't seem to get trials. Actually, most of them didn't really get caught. All the X-men did was interrupt them. Stuff like this, this was what they ought to be doing. Putting people away. Making the world safer in the long term, not just the short. Hell, if they'd really caught Magneto that first time, years ago, put him away in some plastic prison, then so much would never have happened. A world without a mutant Genosha. A world without the slaughters that followed the institution of such, both perpetrated by Magneto and against him.

And the questions weren't too hard. Of course, they were coming from their guy, their own lawyer. Well, her lawyer, but Bobby figured he was on her side. Wait, was he allowed to do that? Shouldn't he be completely objective and impartial here?

"Can you describe the exact position they were in when you first saw them, Mr Drake?"

"I can show you," Bobby said without thinking. There was a crackle of laughter, and he blushed slightly.

"That... won't be necessary." Bobby didn't like the way the lawyer for the defence smiled. He felt like he was about to be asked out for dinner, and wine, and then never even a phone call.

"Well, he was gripping her wrists and holding her against the wall. Pressing against her," Bobby smiled weakly.

"You saw that at a glance?"

"Yes. I'm... trained, to take things in quickly. A glance ought to be enough to assess a situation."

"Ah yes, your history as an X-men."

"Yes," Bobby said, not sure if he'd been meant to reply to that.

"So, when you saw them, from the fast moving car, what was your 'assessment' of the situation." They'd established that Jean Paul had probably been breaking the speed limit. Bobby had shot him apologetic glances across the courtroom. At least they weren't dwelling on the X-men angle.

"That he was attacking her. I thought he was a mugger," Bobby said calmly.

"So rape was not your first assessment."

"No."

"When did it occur to you that he was attempting to rape her?"

"When I realised his fly was down," Bobby swallowed.

"So the gun, the abandoned underwear, they didn't register?"

Bobby flinched. "Not the panties, but yeah I saw the gun. Gun still made me think mugging, though."

"I see. Is it possible, Mr Drake, that your training has made you, shall we say, hypersensitive to hostile situations? That you may have misread the initial situation and overreacted?"

"No."

"I see."

"The gun kind of gives it away that this wasn't some quick fondle after too many drinks," Bobby said through gritted teeth. "That and the other guy."

"Ah yes. But, from your earlier statement, we were led to believe that these factors did not come to your attention until after you had arrived on the scene."

"Well, yeah. I mean, yes."

"Would you describe for the court what you would have done had you been mistaken?"

"Apologised and left," Bobby said quickly, blushing at the thought. God, he was twitchy. He couldn't imagine what it looked like. He'd only been slightly nervous before, but after four different people coming up to him and reminding him not to start cracking jokes the furious adrenaline had left him shaking like a caffeine addict. He'd bitten Jean Paul's head off for a simple 'good luck'. The guy seemed to have taken it quite well, though. He'd apologise later, buy him a drink or something.

Jean Paul had taken him out again earlier in the week, bought him more coffee and cream cakes. And a copy of his book, when Bobby had asked a little shyly. He'd signed it too, which had made Bobby laugh. They'd talked about the trial, and how it was likely to go. They'd been so confident. It looked so open and shut, even with the few complications. Jean Paul had had to explain why it could be hard to press rape charges if the victim was married to the rapist, and had managed to cut several sharp jabs in at the institution of marriage in general. They'd talked. They'd talked like adults.

"Imagine, Mr Drake, that you were in the following situation. You've been out for a night on the town with your b- significant other." If one more person tried to allude that Jean Paul was his boyfriend he'd scream, right there, in the middle of court. He'd scream. "You've both had a lot to drink. You'd rather go home, but h- your significant other is 'in the mood' and suggests a quick sojourn to the nearest alley. You agree. Perhaps you had a fight with your significant other earlier, or have been having an affair, or something that makes you feel a little guilty. Maybe he's not the nicest person ever." Definitely going to scream, any second now. "You're just beginning to get going when two men in spandex appear and start threatening your significant other. You're scared, Mr Drake. You're scared of these men who are threatening your significant other and you're scared of what he's going to do to you when you get home. How would you react?"

"I'd explain the truth," Bobby said stiffly. "And I am heterosexual, so please stop trying to allude otherwise."_ Oh look, no screaming. Do I get a cookie?_

"I apologise, Mr Drake," the lawyer said, equally stiffly. "If you would care to employ your imagination, can you concede that another person, in the same position, might lie?"

"Yes, but there was a gun and a second person," Bobby snapped. He felt like his blood was boiling. He needed to cool off a bit before he did something stupid. Lucky for him he was Iceman, wasn't it?

The temperature drop was sudden and harsh, and very noticeable. The lawyer jumped when his breath steamed out in front of him. Bobby's stomach twisted as the judge stared at him. He hadn't meant it to be that cold. He could see Jean Paul out of the corner of his eye, looking horrified. Ice was beginning to creep across the witness stand.

"Mr Drake, I believe we were assured that there would be no use of mutant powers in this room?" the judge asked pointedly.

"I, I'm sorry." Bobby could feel the shivers start. He felt like a teenager again, ready to be wrapped in blankets and hot water bottles. He hadn't had so little control over his powers since those days. "I'm trying," he said weakly.

"Mr Drake-" the judge began, but words died in his throat and Bobby iced up completely. Bobby stared down at himself in panic. Was this it? Oh god, oh god oh god ohgodohgodohgod.

Jena Paul, from the other side of the room, watched, stricken, as Bobby began to freak out at his inability to control himself and tried to bolt from the stand. His smart shoes and the ice he'd managed to coat most of the front half of the court with were an unfortunate combination and he tumbled forwards. Jean Paul was on his feet to watch him shatter.

It was a horrible moment. Jean Paul was at the front of the room before most people had even registered what had happened. He knew it wasn't the end of Bobby Drake, he'd heard about the exploits in Kurt's father's dimension, but that did nothing to quell the aching cold in the pit of his stomach. Kneeling in the now melting ice he desperately looked around for Bobby's head. It seemed to him that it was the most important part. Surely, if that had smashed too, then Bobby really was no more.

There were screams, in the background. Jean Paul didn't even try to identify who they belonged to. He held a shard of ice between his fingers and watched it melt in the heat of the courtroom. Most of the ice was in fragments so small he couldn't imagine how they had made a human body. No sign of Bobby's head, or any other part. Just millions of shards of ice. He shouldn't have shattered like this. It didn't make sense, not for such a small fall. The ice in Jean Paul's hands collapsed into a puddle.

Jean Paul breathed heavily, each breath shaky and harder to pull than the last. He closed his eyes. This couldn't be right. He squeezed his hands into fists, but he refused to go further. No tears, no screams, no anger. It wasn't right. This couldn't have happened. It made no sense. It wasn't right.

"JP? Uh, Jean Paul?" came a breathy voice in Jean Paul's ear. Almost Bobby's voice, but there was nothing behind it, no weight to it. He opened his eyes carefully.

The ice was gone. There was still some water, but mostly there was a moist cloud, vaguely shaped. Jean Paul's heart went fast even for him, and he knew he was staring open mouthed.

The vapour Bobby tried to speak again, but the sound was too slight. He was obviously still terrified. Jean Paul reached out, not sure of what he was trying to accomplish. Bobby just felt like a cloud, cloud and damp and clingy. Jean Paul pulled his hand back sharply, staring at the drops coalescing on his hand. That was Bobby. Those drips on his hand were Bobby. He fought to stay calm.

The point where his hand had entered Bobby was still a slight dent, and the vapour there began to condense. He watched as Bobby slowly reformed as water. He rippled, still shaking with fear. A liquid Bobby sitting, surrounded by soaked clothes, reached out to touch Jean Paul. When the water hit Jean Paul's skin it felt only like water, and it did not retain its shape, splaying like a vertical puddle. Jean Paul swallowed.

Slowly, the water began to freeze. He could see that Bobby was putting a lot of effort into this. He wanted to call for the air conditioning, to find some way to cool the room and help Bobby. Instead, he watched helplessly as Bobby went cloudy from the inside out, trails and tendrils of ice dancing across his surface like frost on a window. He noticed, blankly, that each state Bobby went through had more definition than the one before. So now Bobby, all ice, if still a little cloudy, sat naked in a courthouse.

"I gotta get out of here," Bobby said, voice raw and wet. "I need to be somewhere cold."

"I understand. I will explain," Jean Paul said, pulling off his jacket and draping it over Bobby, who apparently hadn't noticed his nudity. Bobby glanced down and blushed. Jean Paul's heart tripped at the colour, and he ran his eyes across Bobby to confirm his suspicions. Yes, he was returning to human, and he wasn't fighting for it like he had every other state. It caught Bobby's attention too, and for a split second they both feared the luck would fail and he'd be ice again.

The room was silent as they watched the ice fade from Bobby's body. He sat, almost naked, most skin covered, in the middle of what had been a court proceeding. People stared. Even Jean Paul stared, but he didn't turn his head as the others had.

Bobby stared at the dark spread of ice across his torso. Now he could see how fast his heart was going, and how shallow his breaths were. There was the sound of gagging from somewhere. He appreciated, in some distant sort of way, Jean Paul's efforts to meet his eyes. Others were staring at his chest or staring away.

Jean Paul stood up slowly. "Your honour? I request that my companion be removed from this chamber until he is fit for questioning again."

The judge nodded nervously. Jean Paul helped Bobby to his feet and saw that the young woman they were here for had collected Bobby's clothes, and held them out awkwardly to him. Bobby was still too fazed to be really embarrassed, and by the time his bare behind was shown on local and national news that evening he was safely ensconced in the deep freezer.

A Recess was called, and Jean Paul helped a numb Bobby dress. They spoke to both lawyers, and managed to convince them to drop Bobby as a witness, though they also had to let his testimony be stricken from the record. Jean Paul wanted to take him home personally, but he was still needed. It was a confused mess of bureaucracy and concern, all focused like a tight whirlwind around Bobby, who didn't seem interested in looking further than the end of his nose and responded in one word answers, and then only when absolutely necessary. Jean Paul guided him around with one arm across his shoulders, swearing in French at almost everyone, including the judge, who had come to express his concern for Bobby as a person.

Bobby, after letting people call a taxi for him and see him off, climbed out of the dank vehicle less than a mile down the road and walked back to the mansion. Ice footprints traced his circuitous route home.


	5. part five

**Part Five**

Bobby had smiled and shrugged and sighed at people until they left him alone. Of course it was a pity that it had happened, and he hadn't been able to help it, and such a shame the trial had collapsed. He nodded and didn't say much and avoided people like Hank and Warren who would have been on him in seconds, determined to cheer him up.

Jean Paul had shouted and spat and snarled at people until they left _him_ alone. It wasn't a pity, it was a travesty, it wasn't a shame, it was a scandal. And when Bobby disappeared it only added to his fury that no one seemed to want to look for him. The boy was probably distraught, and these people weren't supposed to be his _friends_.

"Sit," a stern voice commanded.

"What?" Jean Paul snapped distractedly. Bobby wasn't outside, he'd checked the grounds twice already. He had a sinking suspicion that he knew where the boy was now. He had to get his coat. Who was holding on to his arm?

"Jean Paul, sit," Annie repeated firmly. "You're going to leave Bobby alone for five minutes."

"They have abandoned him!" Jean Paul turned to her.

"No, he's abandoned them. Sometimes people want to be alone, Jean Paul. Don't blind yourself to that."

"You think I am only concerned because of that stupid crush," Jean Paul rounded on her. "That is what you think of me."

"Don't be an idiot," Annie rolled her eyes, and shoved a hot mug of black coffee into his hands. "You're exhausted, and you're moody and I don't doubt the sincerity of your concern but you're in no state to be allowed to talk to anyone, let alone Bobby Drake."

"Why not Bobby?" Jean Paul pouted, allowing himself to be forced into a chair. He was tired, and he was in a bad mood, he could acknowledge those. And the coffee was good.

"Because he's just as tired and moody as you are," Annie told him, helping herself to her own mug of coffee. "And right now he's more interested in blaming himself for each and every of the world's ills than pretending to be rational about it for the sake of others. And he'll snap at you, and you'll snap back, and by the end of it you won't be talking to each other any more and you'll regret that, won't you?"

Jean Paul shrugged. "Might be for the best," he said dully.

"I think you two have the potential to become really good friends," Annie persisted. "I've been watching you together since that date-"

"Not a date," Jean Paul interjected.

"-that date last week. Of course it's going to hurt, letting yourself grow that close to him and knowing you can never lay hand on him, but it's better than getting on his bad side. Do you really want him threatening to kill you again?"

"He had cream on the tip of his nose. It almost broke me," Jean Paul said softly.

"I'll bet," Annie smirked. "He's got a lot of sides, that boy. Cute, sexy, moody, funny..."

"Stop torturing me," Jean Paul batted at her. "I am going to bed."

"Did I say sexy?" Annie grinned. "And today, naked. Yes, sexy. Vulnerably so-"

"Shut up!" Jean Paul laughed. "I am going to bed!"

"After all that coffee?"

"Oui!"

"Sure you wouldn't rather stay up a bit? 'Dangerous Liaisons' is on."

"... I do like that film."

"Of course you do. And you're full of coffee."

"True. D'accord, I am convinced."

Annie grinned and took his hand, leading him into the staff common room. Jean Paul glanced around, imagining it before there had been so many members of staff. Back when Bobby Drake was a fresh faced sixteen year old, hanging out in here with a furless Hank, a shy Warren and a lanky Scott. He doubted they'd ever watched 'Dangerous Liaisons', but 'Cruel Intentions' might have made an appearance, possibly. Just for that infamous kiss.

"Naked Bobby Drake," Annie whispered in his ear as they sat down. He threw a cushion at her.

* * *

It was midmorning before Jean Paul realised he hadn't seen Bobby. He was probably teaching, of course, or in his room, or the Danger Room, or out for a walk, or in Hank's lab, or...

He didn't bother hunt down a coat, since he was in the kitchen already. He opened the deep freezer briskly and walked in, still holding a hot mug of coffee. The door swung shut behind him, but the freezer had an internal light switch that didn't leave him quite in the dark. The single bulb wasn't sufficient to light such a huge place, and Jean Paul guessed correctly that it had recently been restocked. Pushing between hanging carcasses, feeling like Lucy pushing between fur coats, but in a much more macabre tale, he blinked at the shadows until he saw what he was looking for.

Curled in a corner, looking like an ice sculpture, was Bobby Drake. He lacked a shirt and shoes, but was otherwise dressed. His eyes were shut and his breathing slow and deep, but as Jean Paul approached his raised his head and blinked at him.

"Ah, you," Bobby forced a smile.

"I was worried. Have you been in here all night?" Jean Paul said, sitting down beside him and trying to ignore the ice water seeping through the seat of his trousers.

"Yeah," Bobby sighed. "I want to be alone."

"I do not think you should be," Jean Paul said cautiously. Bobby shot him a narrow-eyed glare.

"I'm not suicidal, JP."

"I know, I just..." Jean Paul spread his hands helplessly. "I am your friend, non?"

"Oui." Bobby slumped forwards. "You're a good friend."

Jean Paul was surprised at how pleased he was to hear that, and horrified at the accompanying guilt. Even now he was admiring Bobby's shoulders, his lean chest, firm abdomen. Would a good friend be doing that? Would a good friend have set out to become such simply because of a physical attraction and not from any particular liking? And sitting there, in the half light, Jean Paul knew it was only a matter of time before Bobby worked it out. The pseudo-dates and the almost-stalking. The willingness to let things slide with Bobby that he would have taken offence at with anyone else. The fact he was sitting in a badly lit freezer in the middle of the morning making half hearted attempts at conversation when Bobby obviously honestly did want to be left alone.

"I missed the news," Bobby said quietly. "Was it bad?"

Jean Paul wanted to lie. "The whole event was caught on tape," he said wretchedly. "Hank is studying it, to see if he can work out what happened to you."

"You didn't answer my question," Bobby said mildly.

"Yes, it was bad. After you left we lost the case. My evidence was poor, it was my fault." It stung to say that, but it was both true and comforting, so Jean Paul made himself do it. "They are talking about banning mutants as witnesses. They already have guidelines for telepaths, they are thinking of expanding it. Some people claim you did it on purpose, to stop the trial."

Bobby's head dropped to his chest, and he shuddered, once. Jean Paul could see him fighting tears.

"It was not your fault. Any sane person could see that," he said softly.

"What about... what about the ice?" Bobby asked, voice cracking.

It took Jean Paul a moment to work out to which ice Bobby was referring. "There was some discussion of that, as well," he admitted.

Bobby scratched absently at his chest. "Thanks," he said softly. "For not dodging the questions or lying." He was still staring determinedly at the floor, shoulders hunched forwards and legs drawn up. It was breaking Jean Paul's heart, and he wondered if he could really still claim the attraction was just physical. He was walking into all sorts of complications if it wasn't, but he supposed that at least heart ache was character building.

"Let me take you out again," he said, siding closer. "It cheered you up before."

Bobby shook his head. "No, thanks. I don't really want to be cheered up. You might as well go."

Jean Paul shook his head. "I will not leave without you."

"It's the freezer, not an Artic expedition," Bobby observed wryly. "Go, I'll be fine."

"No."

Bobby blinked at him, honestly confused. Jean Paul caught himself staring at the delicate ice eyelashes. He hadn't known water could be made to do that, but he supposed Bobby didn't have to rely on crude tools to sculpt himself.

"I am staying until you are ready to leave," Jean Paul insisted.

"You'll freeze. You're not even wearing a jacket!" Bobby protested. Jean Paul shrugged, a hint of a smile touching his lips. Bobby saw the twitch and frowned. "You don't that just by being stubborn you'll get me ought of here. You'll have to leave sooner or later, Jean Paul. I can wait."

"As can I."

"No, you can't!" Bobby snapped, but Jean Paul just shook his head calmly. Bobby gave up on a bad job and hoped Jean Paul wasn't as stubborn as rumour made out. "I read your book," he offered eventually.

"Really?"

Jean Paul seemed... something. Amused? Flattered? Something warm and pleased. Bobby wondered if he would lose that capacity for being warm when he became ice permanently. He felt colder, emotionally, recently. Crueller, harsher, number.

"You've certainly led an interesting life," Bobby said.

"True. I had to leave out many events, though. Some because of the government, some because they simply would not fit. And some because no one would believe them."

"Tell me about it," Bobby laughed breathlessly. "If it wasn't for Thor no one would believe I'd been captured and tortured by a Norse god."

Jean Paul's eyebrows shot up. "You too?"

"Oh, not you as well. I don't feel special any more," Bobby pouted.

"Mon Deui, why us, why them?" Jean Paul smirked. It had the opposite affect to the intended one, as Bobby slumped forwards again. He had been so close to lightening up mere moment before, the beginning of that infamous sense of humour creeping back. Jean Paul's attempt to join in killed it, and in retrospect the Canadian could see why.

"Bobby, I know," Jean Paul went on hopelessly, "that it is always 'why us'. I... I can not offer a solution to that, except to say everyone must ask themself that, at least once, no matter what their life."

Bobby snorted depreciatingly. "Not over Norse Gods," he pointed out. "It's one thing to bemoan relationships and work and family, but-"

"Are those not what you are most upset about as well?" Jean Paul cut in.

"Well, yes," Bobby admitted. "But it's different. How many other people have to worry about those things because they are turning into a walking block of ice?"

"There are other, analogous, problems," Jean Paul returned sharply.

"Like what? Cancer?" Bobby asked challengingly.

"Yes, for one," Jean Paul rose to meet the challenge. It could not be a happy comparison for Bobby, but it did fit. Jean Paul wasn't about to back away from that. He would tell the truth to Bobby, even if it hurt him. Maybe he'd get lucky and Bobby would stop talking to him. "But there are other possibilities. Wounds and scars, perhaps. Growing old. A loss of self-confidence, maybe from being left by a lover. A-"

"_A_-nough," Bobby said firmly. "Your point is made. I whine needlessly. Thank you. Goodbye." He saw Jean Paul flinch at his harsh tone, and regretted his words. It was funny: he doubted he'd have felt as bad had it been Warren, or Hank. But then, he rationalised, they knew him well enough not to take his moods personally. And then, Jean Paul was also _here_. They weren't.

Bobby sighed heavily. "Sorry, you didn't deserve that."

Jean Paul looked uncomfortable. "I think I did," he said softly.

"Well, yeah," Bobby agreed, bitter again. "But if I keep snapping at people like that I'm going to end up icy, alone and with no one to whine to about having no friends to whine to. I just don't want to hear about how I'm like everyone else right now. I want to be different and special and sympathised with. Not empathised with."

Jean Paul shook his head, the distinction between the two words too similar for him. He wasn't sure if this was due to his first language being French or because it was very cold. He was finding it harder to think. The natural vibration of his molecules, the vibration most people weren't even aware of, but he had total control over, was far slighter than usual. He speeded it up again, forced them to vibrate faster, but he still felt slow and sluggish.

"You need to get out of here," Bobby observed reluctantly.

"I told you, I will not go until you do," Jean Paul said grumpily. "What else did you like in my book?"

"Well, I was interested to read about Jeanne Marie. I don't really understand why you are here, though, if you only joined Alpha Flight because of her." Bobby tried to get Jean Paul talking. he didn't want the speedster to fall asleep. That would definitely not be good.

"Xavier asked me," Jean Paul said coolly.

"You don't think he..." Bobby blinked and frowned. "Oh, don't be ridiculous Jean Paul. I realise you perhaps don't think hugely of him, but he's the most moral guy I know."

"His morals are based around his dream, and like all idealists he does not see how others can have morals that contradict his own and still claim them moral. He puts the X-corporation first."

"No."

"Non?"

"No. How long have you been here, Jean Paul?" Bobby asked heatedly. "I have been here ten years. I know him. I know him well. You don't. This is simple, this is true, and I won't stand for you talking about him like that!" Bobby was on his feet, looking down at Jean Paul. "Perhaps you're the one who can't see the morals behind motivations that don't coincide with your own. You put yourself first. I learnt that from your book. You think pretty highly of yourself, don't you? 'I was an orphan...'" Bobby said with mock sadness, "'but I overcame!'" he went on with mock triumph. The pattern continued: "'I was a terrorist... but I overcame! I was gay... but I overcame! I was trashed as an athlete... but I overcame! I was a mutant, but yet again I fucking overcame.'" Bobby spat the last words and was breathing heavily, eyes locked with Jean Paul's.

Jean Paul opened his mouth, already twisted into a sneer before he even spoke, and fell forwards, eyelids fluttering. Bobby jumped back in shock, and then swore furiously.

_A/N: more excuses. I've recently switched from MS Word or MS WordPad, so here may be more typos than usual. If you find there are enough to bother you, point them out to me and they'll go away._


	6. part six

**Part six**

_A/N: I know about as much about how to treat hypothermia as I do American courts. Actually, I think I know rather more, but now I'm worrying I've mixed it up with Pneumonia, or similar._

"Stupid bloody stubborn idiot stupid Canadian damn fast I-can-do-anything speedster..." Bobby muttered as he half carried, half dragged the weighty older man through the school corridors. His litany preceded him, and when he reached Annie's domain the door was already open, Annie standing just inside. She didn't look angry or upset, to Bobby's surprise. It was more a sort of amused resignation.

"Can you get him into that bed, Bobby?" she asked calmly. "He ought to be warmed up slowly. The blanket is heated already."

"I didn't think he'd actually stay until he passed out," Bobby said in slight bafflement. "I mean, who's _that_ stubborn?"

"Oh, Jean Paul is and more," Annie laughed. "You really don't know him that well yet, do you?"

Bobby grimaced. "When we talk, I talk," he admitted. "Is there any relation between amnesia and hypothermia?" he asked.

Annie frowned at him. "No, or at least, not for Jean Paul."

"Well then, I guess we won't be talking much any more," Bobby slumped against a wall. "He doesn't strike me as the type to take someone ripping apart his book and life too kindly."

"Oh dear, did you?"

"And him, and his opinions of Xavier," Bobby sighed. "I went off on one at him."

"I don't think he'll blame you," Annie said warmly.

"Yeah... I'll see you la-"

"No," Annie grabbed his shoulder. "You think Jean Paul frozen his butt off just so you could go _back_ to sitting in the fridge?" She raised her eyebrows.

"No, but..." Bobby whined like a small boy. But then, Annie had one of those of her own, and knew perfectly well how to deal with that behaviour.

"Sit," she commanded. "Eat," she told him, handing him a bowl of soup. "Talk," she said, sitting down opposite him.

"What about?" Bobby sniffed. Annie managed not to look too amused. "Oh, fine. Look you know it all anyway. Turning to ice, going to be single forever, life sucks like an electrolux."

"Have you spoken to Beast about the ice yet?" Annie asked. "He might be able to do something, you know."

"He might also ask why I didn't approach him about it before, and I'd have to sit and stutter and make us both miserable," Bobby said.

"He knows you," Annie said with false confidence. "Do you really think so poorly of your friends?"

"No," Bobby pouted, shifting in his seat.

"Well then," Annie said briskly, in full on mother mode. "You just need to make an effort, that's all. You could have plenty of friends."

"I do have plenty of friends. I'm not starting a new school," Bobby pointed out dryly. "It's like this debacle with my father. I leave off seeing him because it's hard to know what to say when I've left off seeing him for so long."

"I can't believe you can avoid seeing these people," Annie flapped her hands in the air and fond exasperation. "You live in the same house!"

"I once fell out with Hank, while there were rather less of us here, and managed not to see hide nor hair of him for a whole week," Bobby informed her.

"What was that over?" Annie asked, honestly curious.

"I can't remember, something petty," Bobby said dismissively. "Always is," he added bitterly.

"Well, you go and talk to him. He won't make the effort if you won't," Annie said firmly. "You never know, he might be able to cure you entirely, and that would solve your women worries too, wouldn't it?"

Bobby laughed. "You 'met' Lorna, didn't you? She is pretty representative of most of my girlfriends. Either they're insane or not human, or I'm an idiot. I'm good at being an idiot. I thought I had it with Opal." He sighed heavily. "It doesn't matter what I'm made of, Annie, I'm still a failure in that area."

"I think you're sweet," Annie told him. "You're funny, and you're definitely attractive."

"Exactly," Bobby said mournfully. "I've got everything going for me and I _still_ screw it up."

"Oh, sweetie," Annie pulled him in for a hug. "You'll meet someone, you will. I know for a fact that there are people in this very building who find you very attractive."

Bobby smiled weakly at the attempt, as he saw it, to cheer him up. "That's nice," he said, still hugging her. It was nice, warm against her starchy apron, head on her shoulder. He kissed her cheek and remain slumped over her, resting his weight against her. She kissed his hair and squeezed him.

"Am I interrupting something?" a cool voice asked nastily.

Bobby sighed and pulled away from Annie. "Morning, Alex," he said before he could come up with something cold to say. He had to do that sometimes, let the automatic politeness instilled since childhood leap in before his mind could come up with what he really wanted to say.

"Hello, Bobby. Out of the freezer already? I thought you had more conscience than that."

"Oh shut up, Alex," Annie scolded him. "Jealousy does not become you."

Bobby snickered despite himself. "Why are you here?" he asked lightly.

"I came to see my _lover_," Alex emphasised. He knew as much about Bobby and Lorna's relationship as the bachelorette guests did, and rather more besides. He enjoyed rubbing it in sometimes, though he wasn't a particularly cruel person. Some personalities were bound to clash, and Bobby's bitterness towards him after Lorna chose him the first time hadn't helped early impressions. Over the years they'd avoided each other for the most part, which had worked then but now left them to estranged to even see the point in attempting a reconciliation. They had formed their impressions.

"How professional," Bobby sneered. "I brought in a patient."

"Jean Paul passed out after last night?" Alex asked, voice suspiciously soft. "Everyone noticed how the two of you disappeared at such a similar time. And no one would begrudge you a little 'mutual comfort'. I know how lonely you are, Bobby."

Annie held her breath, but Bobby didn't rise to the bait. In fact, he didn't respond at all. His eyes turned to the still unconscious form resting in the bed.

"You know perfectly well that Jean Paul was with me last night," Annie said coldly. "Grow up, Alex."

He flinched. "Sorry, Annie," he said softly. "I was just hoping we could spend some time together. I missed you last night."

Annie smiled and shook her head. "Why don't we take a picnic supper?" she smiled. "I'll leave Carter with, well, Bobby, would you mind keeping an eye on him?"

"Sure," Bobby sighed.

Alex reached out and took Annie's hand, pulling her over. She shot a glance at Bobby. "Would you keep an eye on Jean Paul, just for a few minutes?" she asked, hating herself for hurting Bobby like this.

"I know you won't be long," he said, enjoying the dirty look Alex shot him as the couple left. It was nice to get the last word sometimes. He sat back in the visitor's chair and stared down at Jean Paul, serene in sleep. It was sleep now, not the disturbing emptiness of unconsciousness. Bobby reached out and brushed a flick of hair from Jean Paul's face, where it was making his eye twitch. "You're not bad lo- no, you're damn good looking," Bobby said quietly. "And your ears are part of that. I wonder if they bother you, sometimes? Maybe before you knew you were a mutant they worried you. I'd have had them operated on. I had my ears pinned back as a child. I worried that I wouldn't be able to get a girl." He laughed quietly.

Jean Paul stirred in his sleep, but Bobby was confident that he couldn't hear him.

"If I swung that way I'd be swinging all over you," Bobby said, not caring how it sounded. He knew what he meant and it wasn't as though anyone else could here him. Still, he laughed at himself. "If I thought you were interested I'd... no, that's hardly fair. I'm desperate, but you've been a good friend and I'm not going to use you like that. Though sometimes I wonder if... You're quite the tease, JP, and I think you know it." Bobby grinned at him. "I know you've been watching me, but I'm not sure if you're not watching out for me. Can't see why you'd want to, but you seem to have made a habit out of it. I appreciate that." he reached out and brushed Jean Paul's cheek again, but there was no hair there this time. "I bet you use loads of products to keep yourself pretty. All those poofy hair gels and girly face creams."

"Girly?" Jean Paul breathed, accent heavy. "_Poofy?"_ he said with rather more strength. His eyes snapped open and Bobby pulled his hand away to rest on Jean Paul's pillow, since pulling it back into his lap would draw attention to where it had been. Still, Jean Paul turned his head and focused on it, and Bobby felt his stomach curdle. Now he was due the tongue lashing he'd escaped earlier.

Jean Paul pulled himself into an almost sitting position, though his arms shook with the effort. He was breathing heavily, though he sounded like he had a bad cold. Bobby kept himself still. Jean Paul was frowning, but he couldn't focus properly. Bobby felt compelled to speak.

"You've given yourself hypothermia, and probably worse," Bobby explained. Jean Paul slumped down again. He was still obviously angry, but Bobby wondered if he was certain he knew why. "I'd apologise, and try and take back what I said earlier, but would it make a difference?"

"Non," Jean Paul admitted tiredly. "I..."

"...hate me?" Bobby suggested. "Feel free."

Jean Paul, woolly headed and deeply groggy, struggled to find a solution to his current quandary. He was upset, and hurt, and furious. Even Bobby Drake being Bobby Drake wasn't going to change that. But he was still Drake, and he was still attractive, and he was looking so accepting. To forgive him would not only be hard, but it would be out of character. He'd already forgiven Bobby more than he would anyone else. He still wanted to punch Bobby. But Bobby was going through a hard time. He'd been completely out of line, inexcusably so. He was obviously sorry.

Jean Paul closed his eyes. "I will decide how I feel about you when I am well," he said muzzily.

"A few days grace," Bobby sounded apprehensive.

"When I am well," Jean Paul began, "I will..." His words dissolved into a hacking cough. Bobby looked around for Annie, but she was still absent. Why couldn't Alex be quick in the sack? And terrible, obviously. It would be great if he was terrible in bed. The idea almost brought a smile to Bobby's face. Jean Paul's miserable choking brought him back to reality, and he found himself doubtfully contemplating the idea of interrupting Annie and Alex. It would be funny, pointing and laughing at Alex, but he considered Annie a friend and that wasn't what you did to friends.

"Annie ought to be back soon," he said helplessly. "Don't start coughing up blood, please."

"Water," Jean Paul managed.

"Oh, of cou- no, wait, I don't know," Bobby stopped in anguish, hand hovering over an empty glass. It began to fill despite his indecision. "I don't know if it's right. You might have water on the lungs, or something."

"I did not drown," Jean Paul snapped, overcoming his coughing attack long enough to snarl at Bobby. "Water!"

Bobby gave up and handed him the glass. "It's cold," he warned. "I'm sure that's not good."

Jean Paul didn't curl up and drop dead having gulped down the chill water, which Bobby took as a positive sign. He still shifted in his chair uncomfortably and tried not to worry that not only had he ruined his friendship with Jean Paul but he'd also been the agent of his death. Right now that awkward conversation with Hank sounded like heaven. Bobby stared around the small sanatorium, looking for anything that might be what he wanted for Jean Paul. Tissues, hot water bottles, chicken soup, something, anything. Instead, he saw Annie, and his sigh of relief was audible.

* * *

Jean Paul was ill for several days, but his hyperactive metabolism helped him get past it faster than most. Bobby managed to time his visits for when Jean Paul was asleep, so he'd wake up to some wilting wild flowers from the grounds, or a slightly melted bar of chocolate. And, when he'd given up on anything more personal, a book in French that Bobby had obviously chosen for the language, not the content. But Jean Paul was touched, and his desire to break Bobby's nose prior to forgiving him abated a little.

During this time Bobby also made a point of finding and talking to Hank. Bobby had sat on what had once been an examination table, though Hank's new fingers could no longer handle the scalpels, and kicked his feet against the supports.

"Hank, I'm feeling damn bad," he said. "If you could be human again, would you do it?"

"In an instant," his blue friend said. "You've always known that."

"I guess so," Bobby sighed. "But I feel like scum asking you to find a way of stopping this happening to me, when you took it so... stoically."

"I would not call my deliberately erroneous pronouncement particularly stoic," Hank pointed out.

"You think I've not come out with stupider stuff when I've been dumped?" Bobby raised an eyebrow. "I just never said it to a reporter."

"My mistake indeed," Hank smiled grimly. He held up a needle. "Do you mind?"

Bobby held his arm out and rolled up his sleeve. "Feel free. Am I a coward for not taking this like a man? I feel I ought to be grinning and sticking out a jutting chin and telling people how fine I am."

"You were," Hank told him, "which was an indication that all was not well. I do not mean to imply you are a coward, friend, but rather that you are inclined to wear your heart, as they say, on your sleeve."

"I'd rather not have one at all," Bobby sighed, flinching as the needle went in. "I'm a coward compared to people like you and Kurt, and I feel like shit for it. Even Warren couldn't attempt to pass for human for a while. Doesn't hide it now, like everyone else."

"You chose, when it mattered, not to hide what you were," Hank reminded him softly.

"Crashed and burned for it too," Bobby rested his head against the warm silky fur of his friend's shoulder. "If you could stop that kind of thing happening, I'd be grateful."

"Like many of us undergoing secondary mutations you may simply have to relearn to control your powers," Hank told him. He wrapped a hairy limb around Bobby and pulled him into a warm embrace. "It is hard, I know, but you have been through so much worse," he said reassuringly. "You are a strong person, Bobby, though you never see it yourself."

Bobby breathed deeply, relieved that at least Hank's scent remained the same. Warm and musky and like old books, in a way. When he was human, when he was simian and now he was feline. He nuzzled Hank's fur and knotted his hands in it.

"You remind me of Aslan," Bobby said indistinctly. "Ever read those books?"

"Yes. Based on a mix of neo-Platonian ideas and Christianity." Bobby could feel his hair ruffled by the hot damp breath.

"Aslan was Jesus, wasn't he?"

Hank chuckled, low and deep, a derivative of a purr. Bobby could feel it rolling around his chest. He grinned and pulled back far enough to see his friend's broad smile.

"I didn't mean it quite like that," Bobby laughed. "It's just, it was a Narnia moment. I could defeat the white witch if you asked, and rule the kingdom. And I can do this." He squeezed Hank again, arms not even meeting around the huge chest. "They're always hugging Aslan in those books. It's one of the primary past times."

Hank squeezed him back, always careful of his own strength. He stepped away, leaving Bobby's arms empty but still open, and placed the blood from the syringe into a test tube. Bobby grimaced in anticipation and pulled his shirt off, baring the dark patch of ice. Hank studied it critically.

"Do I try another intravenous extraction, or shall I take a solid sample?" he mused aloud. He cocked his head to one side. "Have you been picking at it, Bobby?"

Bobby ducked his head. "Yeah, a bit. Scratching, mostly. The edges itch."

"I do not want to crack it," Hank debated, "and I do not want to risk withdrawing fluid from the internal organs, but nor would a sample identical to that I have be of any use. Quite a conundrum. Still, your input relating to the irritation is certainly useful."

"Doesn't it mean I'm fighting affection, or trying to grow skin over the top, or something?" Bobby asked, trying to swallow the hope.

"_In_fection," Hank told him fondly. "You, my friend, would never fight affection."

Bobby smiled and nodded. "Too true."

Hank looked at him, and opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it again and looked away. Bobby frowned at him. He turned back with an instrument Bobby didn't recognise, carefully tucked between two large fingers. It was something you might see in a dentist's, Bobby figured, but from his point of view that could be said about any surgical tool. He hadn't had particularly positive experiences in the dentist's chair. Carefully, silently, he scraped a small sliver of ice from Bobby's chest into another test tube. Then, after more wordless consideration, he probed the edges of the ice in a similar way, though he could not prevent a little of Bobby's blood joining the ice in the third test tube. All three were placed in a chilled receptacle, to keep the constituent parts as they were.

"Hank?" Bobby cocked his head to one side. "Aslan?"

The corner of Hank's mouth curled upwards. "Yes, Bobby?"

"You were going to ask something," Bobby prompted softly.

"Well, yes, I suppose I was," Hank admitted.

"Ask me," Bobby pushed. "I took out all my furious resentment on Jean Paul, so whatever it is, I'm not going to chew your head off for it."

"You were upset with Jean Paul?" Hank asked.

"Are you trying to change the subject?" Bobby demanded.

"Actually, no," Hank chuckled. "I am... curious, as to the nature of your relationship with him."

"Why?" Bobby blinked at him.

"No, you must answer my question." Hank waved a finger in his face.

"Well, okay, but you answer mine. I'm sure yours is the more interesting answer," Bobby told him. "We're friends. Your turn."

"'Friends' is a very generic term. I would rather you were more specific."

"Specific how?"

Hank's broad face contorted. "I am not positive," he admitted. "I just feel that perhaps there is another element to it. You are unlikely comrades."

"Yeah, I guess we are. Not got a huge amount in common. He's just... he's being nice to me, the way you all were, when I was homesick, way back when. He reminds me a bit of Warren, though I can't see either liking _that_. I can talk business with him, and he's an objective point of view for most things, and I can really let loose on him. Really rant and rave."

"You feel you can't with us?" Hank's voice was slightly taut, but closely unemotional. Bobby flinched.

"Hank, you know I love you. But Jean Paul is... bitter. Angry. Really inclined to agree. I don't feel guilty at bringing him down, but I feel really guilty right now." There was a slight bite to Bobby's last words, and Hank got the message.

"I am not jealous," Hank reassured him. "I am pleased for you."

Bobby snorted.

"No, I am," Hank said more firmly. "You must not bottle things up, Bobby, and we both know you do. I encourage you to pursue this."

"Really?" Bobby sounded unsure.

"Of course," Hank embraced him again. "There is no monopoly of friends. You have always enjoyed the company of others. I was worried for you when you began to withdraw, even from us. This is a positive step for you."

"You're just doubting his motivation," Bobby said, muffled against the thick fur.

"I wonder, sometimes. I don't know him though."

"Ask Annie. She wouldn't tell me if there was an ulterior motive, but she'd probably tell you." Bobby unburied his head to look eye-to-eye with Hank, noses touching. "What on earth do you think it would be though? Free accountancy?"

Hank opened his mouth and closed it again, smiling at Bobby. "Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps."


	7. part seven

**Part Seven**

_A/N: Shaun of the Dead is a brilliant movie. And I know someone who actually uses that cornershop, and the guy in the film is the actual one who runs it. Though I feel obliged to say I didn't actually just choose that movie because of it. Living in __England__, it's a bit hard to find a film I've seen that would still be out in __America__. Since SotD is English, I knew it had a much delayed release in the __US__ (October? I know it seemed a ridiculously long way off from when I saw it early in the year). But it's also very good, and very funny, and very much a horror film.___

Jean Paul staggered into the kitchen after just one class, a fistful of painkillers clenched in his right hand. Bobby looked up, concerned.

"You look like death," he said, temporarily forgetting that they weren't really talking to each other. It was safer all round that way.

"Migraine," Jean Paul moaned.

"You ought to be lying down," said Bobby, getting to his feet.

Jean Paul rubbed at his temples. "I have classes all day," he explained. "I will manage."

"I'm free," Bobby said. "I'll take them. You go and lie down."

"I can not ask you to do that."

"You didn't," Bobby pointed out, taking Jean Paul's arm and guiding him towards the door. "I'll take the classes. You've got lesson plans and stuff, and I did a business module at university."

"My plans are in French," Jean Paul pointed out, but he wasn't fighting any more.

Bobby shrugged. "I'll make something up. Ask them. Find a video. You just go and lie down for a bit, okay? in fact, I think you ought to go and lie down in the ward. This might be some left over hypothermia thing."

"C'est ma soeur," Jean Paul said miserably.

"Oh." Bobby understood enough French to feel wretched. He squeezed Jean Paul's arm in a vague gesture of comfort. "Just get some sleep, okay?" he said softly.

"Oui, d'accord," Jean Paul nodded, and winced even at that. Bobby watched him stumbled up the stairs.

* * *

The lessons were... typical of Bobby, to put it one way. He had some idea of what he was doing, no doubt. It just manifested itself through pizza, and Monty Python, and chinese whispers. He managed to cover evrything he couold remember from University, which overlapped with everything the kids had done so far, so he called it revision and bribed them with ice cream not to tell Jean Paul how badly he was mangling his lesson plans. It worked, too, until the last class of the day.

Jean Paul woke with the sun on his face. Squinting, he sat up and frowned through the window. The sun was quite low to come through at that angle. Which meant... Merde, he'd slept all day.

Jean Paul pulled his legs underneath him and made a half hearted attempt to crawl across the large bed. He was still sleepy, but the migraine was gone. He'd never intended to sleep the day away. Just a quick lie down, let Bobby take just the one lesson, and then back to work. Poor Bobby had had to put up with the entire day's classes. Of course, most of the kids were fine. They'd probably be appreciative enough of a Jean Paul free day to be model students for Bobby. Except, of course, that last class. That class with Julian and Santo in.

He wanted to hurry, but his body was still rebelling. A glance in the mirror told him that to arrive now would make him an object of ridicule. Clothes, yes, clothes were important. Didn't do to turn up in underwear to teach a class. Parents would complain. And a shower would probably help too. At least it would wake him up a bit. So Bobby would just have to put up with the class from hell for a little while. Maybe that would be his punishment for what he said.

He strolled briskly down the corridor towards the room he knew his class would be in. Briskly enough to slip, and fall flat on his back, when his foot encountered a still growing patch of ice. He stared between his legs and along the corridor in alarm. From the open door of the classroom a noisy racket could be heard, but even as he listened it died down, and the ice began to recede back through the door.

"I shouldn't have to resort to that," Bobby's voice could be heard, sharp and angry, "to get your attention."

The last few voices murmured to a halt. Jean Paul climbed carefully to his feet and approached the door. He darted back and forth a few times to take stock of the situation without being seen. The number of students was rather larger than it should have been, and he concluded that Bobby had lied earlier about having no classes, and was no forced to combine his Accountancy pupils with Jean Paul's Business students.

"Are you normally this bad, or is it true that there's a rumour going around that I'm a soft touch?" Bobby's voice was quieter, more tired, but still traced with anger. "It's not true. Yes, there are snow cones occasionally, as my own class knows, but you're not my class, the majority of you, and you've already used up your allocation of patience. In other words: sit down, shut up, and do the fucking work."

Jean Paul had never known such silence. He hovered outside the door, indecisively. To enter now would mean Bobby's outburst was in vain, and would probably undermine his authority, but he knew it was only a matter of time before they began acting up again and he didn't want to put Bobby through that. He really had made up for his harsh words in the freezer. And some of the students were very sensitive to temperature.

"When you're done you can leave," Bobby declared from within. "Names will be given to Jean Paul, who'll probably say what I said to you, but in French. And next time you can have Ms Frost substituting, because I'm damn certain you wouldn't dare to ask here what you asked me."

Jean Paul left then, as the first few diligent pupils made their way to hand in work and file out, and brewed two hot, strong and sweet cups of coffee in anticipation. It was a good twenty minutes before Bobby actually joined him, but he didn't object to the cool coffee. He was less than half way through the cup before the remnant froze, and he stared down at in disgust.

"How do you put up with that lot?" he asked, shoving the frosted mug across the table.

"I shout," Jean Paul shrugged. "Some days are worse than others."

"No wonder you get migraines," Bobby laughed bitterly.

Jean Paul smiled slightly. "Julian reminds me of myself," he offered.

Bobby snorted. "Yeah, he reminded me of you too."

Jean Paul looked offended. "He reminds me of myself at his age," he said tightly. "I feel I have matured past that."

Bobby looked at him, eyes dancing. "Whatever you say," he smirked. "How was your nap?"

Jean Paul could sense the underlying mocking in the question, but he also knew it was meant in a friendly fashion. "I am feeling much better, thank you."

"That's good," Bobby said, smiling at him. It made Jean Paul's heart twist, that smile.

"You should have fetched me after the first lesson. I did not mean for you to take my place all day," Jean Paul told him.

"You needed the rest," Bobby shrugged. "I did check in on you at lunch, but it wasn't worth waking you."

At least he hadn't commented on how sweet or innocent he had looked in sleep, Jean Paul consoled himself.

"Plus you were doing this adorable twitching thing," Bobby added wickedly. "Couldn't bear to wake you when I saw your shoulder going like that." he twitched in imitation.

Jean Paul sighed theatrically and settled himself against the counter. "I was going to offer you recompense for your troubles," he told Bobby, "but now I do not think you deserve it."

Bobby sidled up to him playfully, tilting his head to one side and batting his eyelashes. "What kind of recompense?" he asked, bobbing up and down on his heels.

Jean Paul shrugged with deliberate casualness. "A film, perhaps?" He was surprised at his own nervousness. Coffee was one thing, a thing between friends, but going together, just the two of them, to see a film... that had different connotations. And part of him hoped Bobby would pick up on them. If this shaky back and forth continued much longer Jean Paul would give himself an ulcer. So he was suggesting a date, and if Bobby didn't start guessing soon then perhaps he'd just tell him, and let whatever was going to happen happen.

... or not. His pride was objecting to the mere thought. Getting shot down was never fun.

"Something funny, I think," Bobby said from beside him. "I am still quite stressed after that last class."

That explained the mood swings, Jean Paul decided. Or the defence mechanism, which Bobby had tried to deny was one in the past. He didn't doubt that Bobby was a generally cheerful and funny person, but the suddenness of his good humour sometimes emphasised the fragility of it. He rested an arm across Bobby's shoulders and began to steer him out of the room.

"D'accord," he said amiably, "but nothing with Ben Stiller in it."

* * *

Bobby ran his eye down the list of titles with a heavy sigh. Jean Paul lounged against the wall next to him, watching the queue for tickets coolly. Bobby glanced behind them, then at the clock on the wall, then back at the list of films.

"It's 'Shaun of the Dead' or 'Catwoman'," he said eventually. "What's a horror comedy? Is that meant to be like 'Scary Movie'?"

"It's English, yes? Probably," Jean Paul waved a hand extravagantly, "_ironic_." He snorted.

"What's that meant to mean?" Bobby asked.

"Is that not what the English are so proud of in their comedies? They claim no one in America understand them because they are ironic."

"So, you wanna test that theory?" Bobby asked. "I've heard nothing positive about Catwoman, apart from Halle Berry. Which means that from your point of view it's just going to be a crap film."

"If there is nothing else you want to see..." Jean Paul shrugged fluidly.

"I just hope the accents aren't too strong," Bobby said as he led the way to the ticket queue.

Standing there, Jean Paul tapped his foot impatiently. He knew his limited patience was something of a joke considering his mutation, but he'd never enjoyed waiting, even as a child. Bobby shot him an amused look. Jean Paul forced himself to still his foot, but his fingers found a penny in his pocket and started fidgeting with that instead. Bobby watched the penny blur as it spun around and between Jean Paul's fingers, fast enough to look like it was passing straight through them. A child in front of them stared, just as fascinated. Bobby caught the kid's eye and grinned. The boy blinked solemnly and he tugged on his mother's hand. Bobby, sensing a situation, grabbed Jean Paul's hand tightly just in time for the mother to glance around. She looked horrified, then embarrassed, then gave them a weak smile and pulled her child to stand in front of her.

Jean Paul looked a little baffled. "Bobby... what?"

"You're fidgeting," Bobby sighed, defeated. "Very quickly."

"So?" Jean Paul shrugged. "Do you think I care if these people know I'm a mutant?"

Bobby screwed his eyes shut and let his head roll back on his shoulders. Pinching the bridge of his nose he brought himself back up to look Jean Paul in the eye. "I just don't want any trouble," he explained. "None."

Jean Paul sighed. "Times have changed," he told Bobby. "Most people don't care any more."

"Yeah, well, they used to. I'm not going to start making assumptions," Bobby said bitterly. He remembered far too many anti-mutant campaigns and attacks. It was strange, though. Jean Paul didn't. Jean Paul, despite being old, despite being a mutant longer, had escaped more of the pro-human zealots. He didn't have the now instinctive mistrust. Maybe he was right, maybe times had changed and he really had nothing to fear, but Bobby wasn't going to take that for granted.

"Bobby, I am famous for it," Jean Paul reminded him gently.

"You're famous for being gay. You're famous for your stand against AIDs. Mutants don't even get AIDs. And don't start drawing parallels, I've heard too many. I just want to see a film. I want to be normal, to be human, to see a fucking film," Bobby fought to keep his voice low. "I don't want to be Iceman tonight, okay?"

"Okay," Jean Paul agreed hastily, apparently taken aback by Bobby's outburst. "We are seeing a film. We are people seeing a film. Okay?"

"Yes, okay," Bobby sighed heavily. "Honestly, why do you put up with me?"

Jean Paul slid a hand across Bobby's shoulders and back again, but didn't answer in any other way. Bobby looked at him and smiled slightly. He felt a little guilty still, but before he could apologise Jean Paul was paying for the tickets.

"Hey, you should have let me do that," Bobby objected and Jean Paul pressed the small paper slip into his hand.

"I thought I was taking you out, to thank you for taking my classes," Jean Paul reminded him.

"I forgot," Bobby admitted. "But I'm getting the popcorn."

"Salt," Jean Paul told him, and chuckled at the look on Bobby's face. "I should have known you would be a person who prefers sweet."

"How about just buttered? Compromise?" Bobby offered. "Salt's bad for you anyway."

"So is sugar," Jean Paul pointed out. "Buttered is fine."

Eventually, they made their way into the theatre itself. After much personal deliberation Bobby had reigned himself in and only bought one bag of sweets, but then Jean Paul had insisted on mint humbugs and Bobby hadn't been able to stop himself from getting the toffees and then there were drinks and then Bobby pointed out he couldn't afford all this and an argument had ensued of whether Jean Paul would pay for his own stuff or whether they'd just put some things back and somehow, _somehow_, they made it into the theatre just in time for the last commercial. Bobby balanced the popcorn on the arm of the seat between them and tucked the humbugs under his seat, which earned him a scowl from Jean Paul.

Looking around as the lights faded, Bobby groaned. Jean Paul cocked his head to one side and regarded him with some concern.

"We've picked the make out movie," Bobby explained quietly, gesturing with one popcorn laden hand to the teenaged couples taking up most of the other seats. Some of them had started already. Jean Paul laughed quietly. Bobby joined him, adding, "that woman in the line totally thought we were together, and now we're in here. Think someone's trying to tell us something?"

Jean Paul stopped laughing abruptly, but Bobby put it down to the beginning of the movie. He settled into the seat, knocked the popcorn into Jean Paul's lap and got shushed for swearing by someone in front of them who obviously thought his girlfriend would look up to him for showing so much backbone.

After about twenty minutes in Bobby happened to glance at the audience in front of him. Two rows in front and a few seats to the left, a guy yawned, stretched, and let his arm come down behind his girlfriend. Bobby almost choked on his toffee, catching Jean Paul's attention. Before he could explain, he spotted someone else doing it, and he pointed the couple out to Jean Paul with glee. Jean Paul rolled his eyes.

"It's cute," Bobby insisted under his breath as a zombie bit the head off a pigeon. Jean Paul looked at him, mouth upturned at the corners. And then, he yawned. And stretched.

Jean Paul's mind was racing. If he gave himself time to think about what he was doing he'd stop, except, well, he couldn't stop now. To stop would give the wrong kind of message out. What this message would be, Jean Paul wasn't sure, but he let his arm fall across the back of Bobby's seat as though the doubts hadn't crossed his mind at all. It paid off, to his relief. Bobby almost doubled over trying not to laugh before settling back again, leaning against Jean Paul's arm. He wiggled his eyebrows at Jean Paul, and the older man took this as a signal to relax his arm around Bobby properly. Bobby leant in against, Jean Paul and began to pick popcorn out of Jean Paul's lap with a cheeky grin.

As the film got gorier some of the couples actually walked out, which amused Bobby. The film surprised him, actually. He hadn't expected it to be so much... horror. Sure, it was funny, but, well, ouch. He even flinched and buried his head in Jean Paul's shoulder as the climax approached. Jean Paul squeezed him reassuringly, startling Bobby with the reminder that his arm was still around Bobby's shoulders. He reached absently into Jean Paul's crotch, hunting for the last few pieces of popcorn. Jean Paul shifted uncomfortably and lifted Bobby's hand away. Bobby ignored him, and moved it back. So what if Jean Paul was getting hard? Wasn't like it bothered Bobby, not really. He just really wanted that popcorn. Really. And that brush of heat through the denim under his fingers, and the roughness of the zip pull taught, and the...

Bobby pulled his hand away, but not sharply. He even brought it up to his mouth, pretending to eat popcorn he hadn't found. He had to stop doing this. Jean Paul was a nice guy. He didn't deserve Bobby's fumbled groping in the dark, didn't deserved to be used to salve Bobby's wilting ego. Bobby swallowed, hard, and focused on the resolution of the film, trying to catch all of the references to real horror films.

Leaving the theatre, Jean Paul still had his arm around Bobby's shoulder, and Bobby reciprocated with an arm around Jean Paul's waist. The casual affection in Jean Paul's gesture was beginning to give him butterflies. So warm, and close, and friendly. And Bobby... And Bobby was going to have to start doing some serious thinking if this kept up, because groping a gay guy in a privacy of a movie theatre was implying interesting things about Bobby that he'd spent a long time Not Thinking About.

"What did you think of it?" he asked, voice carefully warm.

"I think that man stole my record collection," Jean Paul told him.

Bobby laughed. "Bit more horror than comedy, I thought. A horror film with funny bits."

"Yes... you wanted to see a comedy," Jean Paul said, voice uncertain. It was strange to hear Jean Paul uncertain, Bobby thought absently.

"Oh, it was funny, and I'm feeling much better," Bobby reassured him. "Watching people get hacked to pieces ought to be the new thing in psychiatrists offices up and down the country for stress therapy, you know?"

"Indeed," Jean Paul smiled, shaking his head in amusement. "Coffee, mon ami?"

Bobby surprised himself by yawning. "I guess not," he said, slightly wistfully. "You may have spent the day napping, but some of us have yet to get our beauty sleep."

"And after searching for it for what, twenty six years?" Jean Paul teased.

Bobby batted at him. "You sink low," he told him, "Warren low."

"I am wounded," Jean Paul said theatrically, clutching one hand to his chest.

They reached the car, and with some reluctance they parted to get in opposite sides. Bobby wrapped his arms around himself and shivered slightly as Jean Paul turned the key.

"Cold?" Jean Paul asked, eyebrows raised.

"After the warmth of the cinema," Bobby said hastily. This wasn't a secondary mutation related thing at all. Hopefully. He glanced over to realise Jean Paul was grinning, and taking off his jacket. Bobby laughed and took it, sliding into the already warm sleeves. "Thanks, sweetheart," he smirked. Jean Paul laughed right back at him. As they set off towards home Bobby snuggled down in the large leather upholstered seat and smiled to himself. "You know, if Annie accuses us of dating again, we're not going to have a leg to stand on."

"It seems to be her favourite joke of late," Jean Paul said.

"Yeah. I know she thinks it's cute, but I haven't had a date since forever," Bobby sighed. "I've never enjoyed being single, you know. Having Lorna around isn't helping."

"There is no chance..." Jean Paul sounded, if it was possible, hopeful.

"What, me and Lorna? Not likely," Bobby laughed bitterly. "Come on, I know you were at the Hen Night, and I know what she said about me. Does that sound like there's any potential there?"

"No, not really," Jean Paul admitted. "If it comforts you, I have been single far too long as well."

"Yeah, but you've got that whole cool bachelor thing going on. I don't think I could even imagine you with someone. Maybe a much younger guy," Bobby said speculatively.

Jean Paul frowned at him. "I am not into that kind of thing," he said firmly. "In a relationship I want an equal. Someone on my level. I do not want to be worshipped."

"Sure you do," Bobby grinned. "Maybe not by a boyfriend but admit it, you love being loved by the nameless masses."

"Maybe," Jean Paul said, purposefully enigmatic. Bobby chuckled at his voice.

"So, what is your ideal man, then?" he asked, twisting in his seat.

Jean Paul's hands tightened on the wheel. He felt slightly sick. This was where teasing and playfulness led. Awkward questions and then pain and rejection. He should have just let his arms drop back into his lap.

"You mean in terms of personality?" he asked.

"Yeah, I guess."

Jean Paul changed gear and ran a hand through his hair. As long as he didn't mention 'funny' he ought to be okay, right? 'Funny' was how Bobby identified himself.

"Well... first, a man who can cope with my fame. It is hard, now, to meet someone who doesn't know who I am, among the gay community." that was a phrase Jean Paul detested. 'Gay community'. It sounded like they were all sectioned off somewhere, some sexuality apartheid. It was about as effective a description as 'blonde community' or 'community that prefers fish to chicken'. "Some men are threatened, others seem more interested in the fame. And wealth."

"So an independently famous and wealthy guy would be best, right?"

"Yes, I suppose. Famous, wealthy and gay. How shallow I sound already." He paused for Bobby to laugh. "It rather narrows the choices as well," he pointed out. "I suppose, were that not an issue, it would have to be someone quite intelligent. I do not believe in doing everything together, but it would be nice to share a few things. A sense of humour is important as well," he admitted. Well, it was true, and it was expected. You couldn't describe a perfect date these days without mentioning humour. "It would be good if he supported the same causes as myself."

"Huh," Bobby said thoughtfully. Jean Paul risked a glance. Bobby was low in his seat, one foot drawn up - Jean Paul bit his lip to keep from snapping at him about the expensive upholstery - and lips in a contemplative pout. He wasn't wearing his sunglasses, Jean Paul noticed. It was the first time he hadn't worn them out. He seemed to need that barrier, usually, to hide behind. But then, he had very expressive eyes. He was old enough to have the beginnings of lines around them, not from age but from simple use. His eyes showed how much time he spent laughing, but when he wasn't amused it was all the more obvious for it. Now, deep in thought, his eyebrows had puckered together and the skin around his eyes tightened.

"Yes?" Jean Paul asked, trying not to panic.

"It just sounds a lot like, well, like me." Jean Paul panicked. "I mean, my choices, the things I look for," Bobby went on, oblivious. "I guess there's not a lot of difference in what everyone wants in a perfect partner, no matter what sex they're looking for."

"I suppose not," Jean Paul said carefully.

"It's stupid, the way people draw lines between each other," Bobby went on. "I mean, why wouldn't people look for the same things in a partner? But you get kinda used to thinking otherwise. Stupid stereotypes and everything."

"Oui," Jean Paul managed.

"Bet that really bothers you, huh?"

"Yes, much of the time," Jean Paul said. "At the institute I sometimes feel I ought to be dating, just to re-educate people."

Bobby snorted. "Don't let that bother you," he said. "It seems like most of the stuff we do is to 're-educate' people these days. It's that whole PR thing, remember? That you blew up at Xavier over. Big Brother is watching you," he finished in an ominous voice.

Jean Paul pulled up in front of the Institute, hugely relieved. Bobby slipped out of his jacket and handed it to him.

"This whole thing really has been just like a date, hasn't it?" he said thoughtfully. "It's a nice jacket."

"Very expensive," Jean Paul told him.

Bobby sat there, leaning over the gear stick. The butterflies were back, and worse. Evil mutant giant butterflies. All because of one little idea that had been bothering him all through the journey home, until he felt that if he didn't follow it through he might explode. He had to get the mood right first, though, or he'd never pull it off.

He forced a grin. "Always is, with you. This was fun, Jean Paul. I've missed doing stuff like this."

Jean Paul looked a little uncomfortable. "I am always here," he offered awkwardly.

"No, now I'm being weird," Bobby sighed. "It's just, just, _god_, it really has been so long since I got to go on a date with someone."

Jean Paul smiled slightly. "So this is now officially a date?"

Bingo. "Guess so," Bobby grinned. "Of course, if it's a date, there really should be a good night kiss, shouldn't there?"

Before Jean Paul could respond Bobby bent right over into his seat and placed a very quick, very gentle, kiss on his lips. Oh god, the urge to open his lips and deepen the kiss was almost overwhelming. A real kiss. He was lingering too long, too close, he knew, but damn. It was meant to be a joke, a bit of play acting, a fun way to finish a fun evening. He'd screw it up. He always did. He daren't screw this up.

He flashed Jean Paul a wide grin. "'night, date," he smiled, and climbed out of the car. He jogged up the steps and once the door had closed behind him fled to his room.

Jean Paul thought he was going to start crying. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. Oh god, he wanted to cry. Oh god, Bobby. Oh god. He slumped over the steering wheel and tried to remember something other than Bobby's lips. He felt certain that once the universe had consisted of more than Bobby's lips and the hideous pain in his heart.

Oh god, Bobby.


	8. part eight

**Part Eight**

_A/N: I was going to put this up last night, then read my own author's note, which included a note about the note and why I should not change plans, and realised it was a bad idea. So, a much more truncated note and still forgetting the plan, because so many lovely reviews (and threats of ice dildoes :P) and also because I'm now _terrified_. What if I don't live up to your standards? What if this now feels too rushed? Should I go and write another chapter to fit in between? Why did I do this to myself? _

_S__o, the next chapter. And I may indeed go back and write one to fit in between. Because I'm all panicky now. I'm glad people like it, but oh god the pressure! And t__he author's note got long and rambly again. Damn. _

Bobby had spent the last week forcing himself not to let it become weird. He'd chatted to Jean Paul like a friend. He'd grinned and joked. He'd even brought up the kiss, in passing, as a shared joke. Jean Paul had smiled. Bobby wanted to punch him for that, and he didn't dare think about why.

Things _were_ weird, though. Jean Paul wasn't avoiding him, but he was spending a lot of time with other people. Annie, primarily. Jean Paul had gone to Annie for another check up after his hypothermia and had ended up treating the bed as a psychiatrist's couch. He'd told her everything about the date. He also told her about the migraine that had led to it, and the stomach cramps he'd been suffering since.

"Stress related symptoms," Annie sighed at him. "We have to do something about this."

"It is the middle of term," Jean Paul groaned. "We are stuck here, together. This is all my own fault."

"Because you initiated this friendship?" Annie asked, shaking a thermometer.

"Because I did not set my alarm that day," Jean Paul replied coolly. "I do not regret our friendship."

"Your stomach does," Annie told him. "Do you want an ulcer?"

"He kissed me. On the lips. Unprompted."

"It was a joke."

"And _that_ is why I am lying here, instead of in bed with him!"

Annie sighed and kissed him on the forehead. "You are going to get what you want one day. You deserve it."

Jean Paul snorted. "Deserve? You say that as though there is some justice in the universe."

"Oh, Jean Paul." She chucked a pillow at him. "Pessimists live shorter lives, you know, than optimists."

"Maybe that's because a lot of bad things happen to them?" Jean Paul suggested nastily. "They are being realistic."

"Have you been invited to Bobby's party?" Annie asked coyly.

"Yes, of course. As far as he is concerned there is nothing awkward between us. Why would he not ask me?" Jean Paul said grumpily.

"So…" Annie waved a hand at him. "He'll get drunk. You can take advantage."

Jean Paul smiled despite himself. "You must not put such temptation before me," he scolded. "I shall go mad with frustration, and then how will you feel?"

"I don't know," Annie said thoughtfully. "Will I be able to tell the difference?"

Jean Paul chucked the pillow back.

* * *

Maybe Bobby couldn't keep distracting himself forever, but it was his birthday coming up and whatever else was going on that deserved to be a distraction. There would be people, and they'd be obliged to be nice to each other on his behalf. No sniping or snarking at each other. He'd be able to pretend that things were actually okay among all of his friends. Even Warren and Jean Paul would have to at least be civil. And he wouldn't have to think about a single upsetting thing. Not even that certain upsetting thing that tied so tightly to both Warren and Jean Paul. He had better things to think about. Like balloons, and cake, and presents.

Bobby loved birthdays.

It was all set up at _The Robin_. Food, and presents, and a great deal of alcohol. Even a blind eye for the few guests who might just be a touch underaged. There had been a seating plan, at one point, in a vague attempt to keep people like Jean Paul and Warren away from each other, and Lorna and Alex (neither of whom Bobby had intended to invite, but for some reason they were coming anyway), and whoever else, but it had turned into a mess as Bobby and Annie tried to reconstruct the various arguments and factions. Eventually Annie had thrown down the piece of paper and declared they might as well have a separate table for each person.

Later, sitting next to an overexcited Carter, Bobby wondered if Annie's idea hadn't been a sound one. Some people were refusing to even pass plates. Jubilee was doing her best down her end, and Annie at the other end. Hank was keeping up a very lively dialogue with Warren to keep him from noticing the dirty looks Paige was shooting Jean Paul. Emma Frost was ignoring the cold looks she was getting from, well, everyone, and Rogue and Remy looked about to launch into another of their famous fights. Scott, hardly the most popular person there either, was awkwardly stuck between Alex and Lorna, who hadn't stopped glaring at each other all evening. Carter seemed to be the only actually happy person there. At least the food was good.

Bobby knew no one would blame him for getting absolutely hammered.

They did presents before Bobby was unable to walk. He had ooh'ed and ahh'ed and burst into fits of laughter as appropriate, or as probably appropriate. That was the thing about being drunk. It was hard to tell when you were overdoing it on the appreciation. But he was appreciative. There was a card from Carter, and a book from Annie, and a collection of computer games from Kurt and a gun from Logan, which had scared a few people. Jubilee had given him a huge bag of glitter and a piece of paper that he wasn't going to allow anyone else to read. Those who had seen the pranks dreamed up when the two got together exchanged nervous looks.

Hank and Warren had been exchanging proud looks for a long time before Bobby reached their present, and so he was surprised to find Scott's name on the card as well. This had been organised a while ago. Bobby looked at each of them in turn, holding their gaze but unable to figure out what the three had concocted. The gift itself was small. It was… it was keys. Bobby's eyes lit up.

"Motorbike," Scott told him.

"Motor… bike," Bobby breathed.

"I think perhaps we ought to take those off you," Warren grinned, leaning over. "Just until you're actually fit to drive."

Bobby swiftly tucked the keys in the pocket of a jacket given to him moments earlier by Jean Paul. "Mine. My motorbike."

Presents over, more alcohol appeared. The tables were cleared away and replaced by a pool table. Annie left, taking a slightly drunk Carter back to the mansion. She hadn't been too happy about that. The kid had been funny though. And so nice to Bobby. He'd asked nicely, and, well, he'd made Bobby a card. No one had done that since he was about eight. He missed Annie's company, but at least Alex had gone with them.

He was so drunk. It was funny. Bobby grinned around the room. Kurt and Logan were playing a vicious game of pool. Hank and Warren were still chatting, though now Paige wasn't watching Bobby the tension had lessened. Lorna had disappeared, probably with that stripper again, who'd been hired for a party in another section of the bar. It seemed like a good time to go around collecting birthday hugs.

Hank and Warren were first, well used to this tradition by now, and he even hugged a slightly reluctant Paige. Bobby felt a little guilty, since he didn't really have anything against Paige other than her age. She couldn't see that, though, because as far as she was concerned she was a mature adult, and until she had the gift of retrospect she'd continue to believe so. Bobby knew it perfectly well.

Jubilee had interrupted his little pity party with a warm kiss, which he returned with rather more passion than she'd probably expected. He held her.

"Bobby?" she murmured.

"We need to hang out more," Bobby told her. "I've missed you."

She giggled. "You're drunk," she accused.

"I know I am, but what are you?" He stuck his tongue out.

"Absolutely pickled," she squealed. "Logan is so not happy with you."

"I don't care." He pulled a face. "I'm getting birthday hugs."

"Are you going to ask him for one?" she teased, making Bobby laugh so hard he found himself sitting on the floor. Jubilee tittered and tottered away, hardly more able to stay upright than Bobby himself.

Since getting up was a lot of effort, Bobby stayed low and crawled across the floor. It was a bit sticky in places, but not too bad. He knew who he was going to claim hugs off next, and it wasn't Logan. But still a Canadian. The connection made him laugh again, and he stopped under the pool table to catch his breath. Watching the heavy boots and bare blue feet circle around him almost made him dizzy. He was saved by an elegant hand with perfectly manicured nails.

Bobby crawled out slowly, and was helped to his feet by Emma Frost, who kissed him lightly on the cheek. He wasn't going to try and take the liberties with her that he had with Jubilee, not without a few more drinks in him at least.

"Well, Robert, enjoying yourself?"

He nodded mutely.

"Did you really need to get so intoxicated to do so?" she cocked an eyebrow.

Bobby sighed. "Hell yeah," he said simply.

She laughed lightly and sipped from her Manhattan. "I do see why. You know, this party is rather less rowdy than I thought it would be."

"Yeah, it's goin' 'kay," Bobby said. He frowned. "Or words to that affect," he enunciated clearly.

"Perhaps you ought to lay off for a bit?" she suggested.

"It's not a'though I get hangovers," Bobby smirked. "One quick change and whoosh," he waved expansively.

"Of course," Emma smiled. "And you resented the things I taught you to do with your powers."

"I have more hugs to collect," Bobby told her solemnly. "If you get sick of the other people I won't mind if you leave."

"Oh, nonsense. Having everyone and their mother look at me like the Whore of Babylon is so amusing."

That was the thing about Emma Frost, Bobby decided as he stumbled away. You never knew if she was actually joking or not. Or, perhaps you did, usually, but not when you're drunk. A lot of things like that got a bit confusing when you were drunk. And that was why it was great fun, because you could blame damn near anything on alcohol. And that was why he'd attached himself a little too zealously to Jean Paul.

"Bonsoir, Bobby," Jean Paul smirked indulgently.

"Salut," Bobby grinned at him. "Birthday hugs."

"I see."

"You're warm," Bobby told him, pressing slightly closer. Loud warning bells were going off in his brain, and he pulled away reluctantly. "Having fun?"

"Yes," Jean Paul lied.

"Drink more," Bobby told him, grabbing a beer from a nearby table and pressing it into his hand. Logan snarled at him. "You could talk to Emma. She's cool."

"I can't talk to you?" Jean Paul asked.

Bobby beamed at him. "You make me feel special," he told him. "Do I get a birthday kiss from you too?"

"You are collecting birthday kisses as well? How greedy!" Jean Paul forced a laugh.

Bobby leant up and kissed him warmly on the lips, mouth slightly open, wet with beer.

Jean Paul's brain took moments too long to react and Bobby was pulling away. He leant in quickly and reinitiated the kiss. Bobby opened his mouth and drove Jean Paul insane. Wet and messy and very drunken, but still a full kiss. Jean Paul reached around Bobby and pulled him in to a tight embrace, but Bobby broke the kiss and stepped back. Jean Paul let his arms fall and tried to remember how to breathe.

"That was…" Bobby looked almost cross-eyed as he tried to work out what had happened. "That was like kissing Jubilee," he managed eventually. "Woah."

"I, I…" Jean Paul spread his hands helplessly. He could feel eyes on him, and glanced over Bobby's shoulder to see an amused Emma Frost and, to her left, a curious Hank and fuming Warren.

Bobby laughed suddenly. Jean Paul let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. God, he really needed a holiday.

"You shouldn't be sho single," Bobby told him. He reached up and touched Jean Paul's lips. "We gotta do this again some time," he added weakly. "I… I gotta sit down." He grabbed Jean Paul's arms and swayed.

Jean Paul guided him to a seat as Hank and Warren came over. "I will get you a glass of water," he said self consciously. Bobby nodded and blinked heavily.

Hank sat next to Bobby as Jean Paul disappeared in the direction of the bar and Warren stood over him. Bobby breathed deeply and tried to keep the good dinner down.

"What was all that about?" Warren broke the silence first.

"Birthday kiss," Bobby shrugged. Warren looked unimpressed. Bobby sighed and leant back, glancing over towards the bar. He saw the flash and silver blur of a coin being played with faster than the eye could see and a host of memories came back to him. He licked his lips nervously.

"If there is anything you want to say to us, Bobby…" Hank prompted gently.

"There's… a possibility that-" Bobby stopped himself. "I think I…" No, not right either. He turned and looked at the bar again. He was drunk, he reminded himself. He could say what he liked, and if he regretted it that badly in the morning he could always take it back. Hank and Warren were used to that. And the last week had been hell for him.

"So," he said eventually, "I've got a crush on Jean Paul. What's new with both of you?" He grinned.

Hank looked unsurprised, but Warren was rather more apoplectic.

"He's, he's… a git!" Warren managed eventually. "He's arrogant, and smug, and a know it all, and…"

Bobby was actually pleasantly surprised. He knew Warren had no problems with homosexuality per se, but he'd always had some doubts about what he'd do if someone close to him came out. Someone he'd known for a long time. This was okay. Warren simply didn't like Jean Paul.

"He's Bobby's choice," Hank said mildly.

"It's not, it's hardly, I mean…" Bobby stuttered himself to a confused stop. "It's probably just one way," he said miserably.

Hank chuckled. "Oh, I rather think not. Not from what we just observed."

Bobby scowled. "I'm drunk," he insisted. "That was… I'm drunk."

"Is he?" Hank smiled.

"He took advantage of Bobby!" Warren managed. "Bobby's drunk. Bastard."

"I really like him," Bobby insisted abruptly, now more worried about his friend's reputation than his own. "He's not taken advantage. I like him." Hank snorted at his confused grammar, but Warren didn't seem quite so amused.

"You're drunk, Bobby." Warren took him by the shoulders, but was careful not to shake him. He'd had too much experience of drunk Bobby to make that mistake again. "You don't mean any of this. You're just… lonely. You're not gay."

"I'm not gay," Bobby repeated. "But you of all people ought to know that I do like men."

The way Warren's face changed colour was startling. Hank moved carefully away. Bobby swallowed heavily. Warren's eyes locked with his and some unspoken argument took place. Warren spun on his heel and strode away, grabbing Paige by the arm and yanking her from her conversation with Jubilee, dragging her behind him as he stormed out.

Bobby stared after him. "I… I promised I'd never bring it up," Bobby said brokenly.

"It will be okay, my friend," Hank reassured him, trying not to be hurt that his friends apparently shared some secret without him. He squeezed Bobby's shoulder. "Whatever it is, you will make it up."

"What just happened?" Both friends jumped at the sound of Jean Paul's voice. He held out a glass of water.

"Stuff," Bobby said coldly. He took the water and drank most of it in one swallow. "Thanks," he added, and hiccupped.

"You are welcome," Jean Paul said. He looked questioningly at Hank, but the blue Beast just shrugged.

Bobby hiccupped again and stared at the now empty glass. "Oh," he said very quietly. And then he was pelting across the room, shoving through the heavy doors marked with the traditional stick man. Jean Paul moved to follow him, but Hank held out a large arm.

"Let him go," Hank said. "Bobby has never been able to hold his drink."

"What happened with Warren? Was it… Was it my fault?" Jean Paul asked nervously.

Hank shook his head slowly. "As far as I can deduce, it is related to something that once occurred between Bobby and Warren." He paused, and gave Jean Paul a very calculating look. "Perhaps you ought to ask him yourself," he said softly. "He might, in fact, be more comfortable explaining the circumstances to you."

Jean Paul sighed. "Can you tell him I left, and I am sorry?"

Hank looked concerned. "So soon?"

"I…" Jean Paul couldn't find a suitable excuse. "I suppose I am not feeling very sociable."

"I think this party is winding down," Hank offered. "I will tell Bobby you have departed."

"Merci," Jean Paul said.


	9. part nine

**Part Nine**

_A/N: Just finished this chapter today. It's a bit shorter than some of he othes, but there's a limit as to how much Bobby you can write in one go._

Bobby's claims to Emma about being hangover free were quite true, which made him rather unpopular with the rest of the overindulgent part-goers the next morning. One switch to ice, force everything that wasn't water out, and then back to human fully detoxed. He was up and about long before most of his friends, and didn't feel particularly inclined to wake any of them up.

He pinned a note to his door, to the effect of: 'I'm playing with my new toys, don't expect me back til late and don't call in case I crash my motorbike and my gruesome death is all your fault.' He grinned, grabbed Jean Paul's jacket - he'd barely taken it off since he'd opened the package - and snatched the helmet he'd found waiting in his room when he'd got home from it's icicle stand.

This was going to be great. He hadn't done this since university, really. That was where he'd learnt and past his test, to impress girls.

It hadn't worked. He'd had almost no sex at university.

But now he had a motorbike and he could ride it, so stuff them. Stupid prissy girls. The sun was still rising as he walked the motorbike onto the drive. Dew was seeping up his trousers, and he bent to duck them into his boots before he mounted the bike. No use taking stupid risks, even if he did look like a bit of a twit. He didn't care. Everyone else was asleep.

This was great. He was grinning like a maniac at absolutely no one. Motorbike!

He zipped up the jacket Jean Paul had given him. He wished it was black leather, old and wrinkled, but smart and brown and new leather. It suited him, he knew, and even though it wasn't quite right with the helmet and the boots and the worn jeans, it still looked damn good. It even smelt pretty nice.

Bobby paused for a moment, one foot still hovering to knock the kickstand up and set off. He ran one hand along him opposite arm, caressing the jacket. He could remember Jean Paul putting a very similar jacket around his shoulders, just over a week ago. He could remember an arm across his shoulders, warm and reassuring. He could remember a kiss so brief it had barely happened that had left his head spinning right up until another kiss.

Bobby stared across the lawn, unseeing. Inside the helmet he was working his lips, licking them and biting them. He felt dizzy. Perhaps now wasn't a good time to test the bike out. He could go back inside, back to bed, and try and get some more sleep.

Bobby lifted the visor of the helmet and swallowed deep breaths of fresh air. Sleep wasn't going to help him forget; he'd just lie in bed and worry. At least at first his mind would be taken up with remembering how to drive this thing, concentration consumed. Sure, spending the day alone would leave him far too much time to think, but at least there'd be space to, outside of the claustrophobic confines of the Institute. He could find a café somewhere to stop for lunch and maybe spend some time riding by the sea.

Jean Paul was awake to watch Bobby leave from his bedroom window. His metabolism had worked off the mild hangover he'd given himself, but he hadn't exactly been drunk. Bobby had, though. Annie's predictions had come true for the party, and he wondered if his own would as well. He was beginning to harbour some suspicions about Bobby's sexuality, though the confidence with which Bobby would reject the mere suggestion he might be attracted to men still left Jean Paul doubting. Bobby might just be one of those rare straight men _so_ confident in their sexuality that fooling around with a guy was just amusing, not threatening. He'd said last night, or implied, or something, that Jean Paul was a good kisser. Jean Paul already knew _that_, but now he was wondering if that was the only reason Bobby flirted.

He listened as the purr of the bike faded into the distance. He had to stop this. He'd watched Bobby around other platonic friends, and noticed him flirting with them as well. Jean Paul couldn't be Jubilee, he couldn't have Bobby so close and so comfortable around him. It was time to push their friendship back again to those stiff and slightly awkward times. He couldn't live like this any longer without fulfilling his own prophecy.

* * *

Bobby sat on the grass between the road and the cliff, bike drawn up nearby. He took a swallow of water from the canteen that strapped to the bike and lay back, marvelling at the sheer blue of the sky. This was perfect. This was the birthday present he was giving himself.

The single cloud was a shining, startling white. The sun was somewhere over the sea, and occasionally the reflection from the waves would make Bobby blink. He could hear seabirds. He could smell salt. He could smell the oil of his bike. He could still smell the new leather smell of his jacket.

Bobby sighed and peeled the offending article of clothing off, draping it over the seat of his bike. Jean Paul wasn't _here_. He shouldn't have to think about him. There was nothing to remind him of Jean Paul except the jacket, which really was just a jacket and had no associations with the man other than being a gift from him. Road trips had other associations for Bobby, like Rogue and arguments with his father.

Bobby rolled onto his stomach and picked at the grass. It was late morning and he was hungry, but he'd come rather farther than he thought he would and so the place where he wanted to have lunch was rather closer than it should have been. He'd decided he'd spend an hour here, watching the sea, before going on for something to eat. The sea was meant to be good for stress, right? Soothing repetitive noises and the like. The Great Outdoors. Zen.

Why had Jean Paul left? Hank had just said the guy wasn't in the mood any more, which had upset Bobby so much he'd been sick again.

He wasn't thinking about this. He wasn't thinking about Jean Paul.

So, what would he have for lunch? Something really greasy. Sausages were a must, and bacon, and definitely eggs. Maybe mashed potatoes. Bobby supposed he ought to have some kind of vegetable, and settled on peas. And, because he was treating himself and there was no one around to bitch about fat or calories or cholesterol, he was definitely having that extra large banana split. And a cup of really sweet black coffee.

He wondered why, when left to himself, he'd have that high sugar high caffeine concoction, but with Jean Paul he always bought something with an Italian sounding name with four 'c's and five syrups. Was he trying to impress Jean Paul, or was he a victim of the Starbucks generation?

Not _thinking_ about Jean Paul.

After lunch, after lunch he would keep riding, obviously. Further down the coast. Maybe go hunting for a beach or cove. Lie on the beach and tan (shirt on, of course, to hide his still growing patch of ice) and maybe even go for a swim. Skinny dipping, naturally.

God, imagine skinny dipping with Jean Paul. Bobby would be out there, in the sea, just swimming. Night, it would happen at night. Jean Paul wouldn't see him at first, just the clothes on the beach. Jean Paul would decide to swim. He'd know someone was there, and once he was a little way out he'd call out, trying to find whoever it was. And Bobby would panic for a second, because he was naked, and then remind himself that it was dark and he was mostly underwater and Jean Paul would never know, not until they got out and he could cross that bridge when he came to it. So he'd swim over, and say hi, and ask what Jean Paul was doing all the way out here. And Jean Paul… Jean Paul would say he was worried about Bobby. He hadn't seen him all day. And they'd talk, and Bobby would… Bobby would get this idea in his head about how funny it would be if he yanked down Jean Paul's trunks. No, Jean Paul would wear a Speedo. Jean Paul could carry that off, and besides, he was gay. And Bobby would dive down just as a big wave came over, and he'd find it hard to see, and he'd reach up and Jean Paul would be skinny dipping as well and Bobby would find himself with a handful of erect dick and

Bobby almost rolled off the cliff in an attempt to get away from his own mind. He lay on his back, panting, staring at that single white cloud in utter horror. One hand crept down and yes, he was hard.

Bobby sat up slowly and stared out over the cliff, focusing on the horizon, trying to pinpoint the exact line between blue sea and blue sky. He let his mind clear of both fantasy and fear until he felt himself again.

How long had this been going on? He'd started dreaming about Jean Paul after their date. No, if he was honest with himself, he'd been dreaming about Jean Paul before that, though the sexual overtones were subtler. Jean Paul had just started turning up everywhere in his dreams. When Bobby had had wet dreams, he'd been there, but he hadn't been the object of Bobby's desire. Even Bobby's subconscious knew what he could and couldn't take in terms of imagery.

The first wet dream about Jean Paul? The night of the date. He'd woken up to find it was barely midnight, and he hadn't slept again. He'd just sat in bed and rationalised it. He'd even found some lesbian porn to distract himself. Over and over he'd told himself that it was normal, it was fine. It was just related to the day's events. It didn't mean anything. He was a normal guy with normal sexual urges, but lacking any particular female figure he'd simply supplied the face of someone he'd spent a lot of time with. And enjoying a blow job hardly made him gay.

By the third wet dream in as many nights Bobby was beginning to suspect his body was trying to make a point. Spending so much time around Jean Paul seemed to leave him permanently half hard. He kept trying to brush against Jean Paul, or encourage casual touching. He'd had him search for twenty minutes for a bump Bobby had made up, just to feel fingers on skin. He'd worked really hard to keep things warm and friendly and casual between them.

Bobby picked grass out of his hair and put his jacket back on. Why was he still bothering with this? He'd said, last night, out loud, that he had a crush on Jean Paul. He had a crush on Jean Paul. A crush on Jean Paul. Jean Paul.

"I have a crush on Jean Paul," Bobby said to the empty world.

It wasn't any easier, saying it out loud. It cleared nothing up for him, it settled no doubts. It didn't even make it any more real. He found it hard to believe his own words. 'Crush'. 'Crush' wasn't right. He found Jean Paul physically attractive. They were both adults, 'crush' was a word for teenagers. He enjoyed Jean Paul's company as a friend. He wasn't obsessed with Jean Paul, or infatuated with him. He just… he just wanted to be with him, and, preferably, to have sex with him.

If Bobby had been a little less confused, he might have found another word for his feelings for Jean Paul, one he would have found even harder to accept. Oddly enough, it hadn't even crossed his mind yet. It wouldn't for a while to come.

"I want… I want to be intimate with Jean Paul," Bobby tried out loud. It was better than 'crush', though it did sound like a line from a period romance. He didn't mean it like that. Sure, he did want that kind of intimacy and all its associated perks, but mostly what he wanted from Jean Paul was someone to be close with.

Bobby climbed to his feet and walked the bike back to the edge of the road. He'd go and have lunch now, before his head exploded, and if he got hungry later on he'd just find somewhere to get a snack. He'd go and seek out some entertainment to keep his mind off Jean Paul. He wouldn't fret, he wouldn't fantasise. He was out for a good time and damn it, he was going to have a good time.

* * *

Bobby ran his tongue around the outside of his ice cream, catching the drips, and wandered through the small seaside town. The wind was what people called 'bracing', and he tightened his jacket around him. He didn't really feel the cold, but the jacket helped keep out the wind as well. His motorbike was safely tucked away in a quiet car park, and his helmet was dangling from his belt. Thing were good. Lunch had been every bit as greasy and starchy and fatty as he'd hoped. The waitress had taken his mind completely off Jean Paul, and he grinned at the thought of the napkin tucked in his pocket, number carefully scrawled across it. He'd never call, but he liked knowing he could.

He stopped by an old stone wall, or old for the United States; after Bobby's global exploit's a hundred years seemed barely minutes old. It was weird. He was weird. He'd travelled the world, travelled in time, and now he was turning to ice.

Leaning on the wall, Bobby laughed. Things like this tended to put problems like that into perspective. There was absolutely nothing wrong with wanting some intimacy in his life, especially right now. Jean Paul could provide that for him. Sometimes, Bobby wondered if Jean Paul didn't want to provide it for him, and to have the same in return.

Bobby squashed the thought that his desires might be mutual. He'd managed to get a reaction out of Jean Paul a few times, but Jean Paul had been single for a long time. He stuck his tongue into the centre of his ice cream as he pushed painful memories away. Finding Jean Paul gone last night…

Of course, Jean Paul was hardly the sociable type, and Warren's abrupt departure had probably given him the impression that people were leaving.

Not thinking about Warren.

Bobby grimaced. As confusing as the Jean Paul issue was, it could never be as upsetting as the look on his best friend's face. He shouldn't have come out today, he should have faced him. Apologised, explained, and made up. Instead he was miles away, worrying about whether his attraction to Jean Paul was mutual.

But it did bother Bobby, what Jean Paul thought of him. The attraction just made the whole thing worse. If he hadn't been attracted to Jean Paul he'd have confided in him by now. Say, he had a crush on Scott: he'd have told Jean Paul and asked about coping and dealing and how you know for certain and maybe even how to flirt with him. Instead, he was forced to puzzle it all out on his own, in case in telling Jean Paul the older man worked it out.

He could talk to Karma, he supposed. She seemed nice, and was certainly far less threatening than Jean Paul. But he barely knew her.

He barely knew a lot of people, it sometimes seemed. The students he was fine with, but all these members of staff who'd barely done a month's active service with the X-men before going off, and now they were back and acting like they'd been there all along. He could hardly claim that he was the most constant X-man, but he knew that no matter what he did or which team he joined, he was one. He'd worked with most people now, most people that had stuck around for any length of time and been involved in any major event. He couldn't count the number of times he'd faced Magneto and the Brotherhood. Hell, were the Brotherhood even around still? The original members seemed as dispersed as the original X-men. Everyone off in different teams doing different things. It was strange to realise he still thought of Kurt and Logan and Ororo and everyone as the New X-men.

So what did that make Jean Paul? It occurred to Bobby that he still had his friend tagged as an Alpha Flight loan, even though Jean Paul's ties with that team had always been sketchy at best. He only fought because of his sister, and now his sister was…

Bobby frowned. What _had_ happened to Jeanne Marie? Jean Paul had said his migraine was related to her. Bobby knew they shared a psychic link, Jean Paul had brought it up once, but it was odd that, as far as he knew, Jean Paul hadn't even called her to ask about the pain. Logan had known both of them once, but when Bobby had brought it up with him he'd found an excuse and left. He'd put it down to Jeanne Marie being yet another girl Logan had loved, once upon a time.

He'd ask, Bobby decided. He'd ask Jean Paul and he'd get a straight answer out of him. Jean Paul never gave anything but. Perhaps Jeanne Marie was working undercover for the Professor. Maybe that's why Jean Paul hadn't tried to find out what was wrong with her. And if Jeanne Marie was working for the Professor, it would explain why Jean Paul was there.

Though it wouldn't explain why Jean Paul had suggested that he thought Xavier had used his telepathy to convince him to stay.

Odd.

Bobby shook the thoughts out of his head and sighed at his ice cream, which was now little more than a soggy cone full of milky vanilla. He found a trash can to chuck it in and sucked his fingers clean.

Within a few hours he was one his way back home, trying to ignore the urge to turn back and just camp out by the sea. It would be late when he got back anyway, so he could put off talking to people until the next day, but that didn't comfort him. Perhaps it was just the sheer volume of shit that had happened to him since he returned to active duty, but he was really beginning to associate living at the Institute with dreading the future.

Bobby felt his stomach cramp as he rode, and grimaced inside the helmet. He knew he'd overindulged, but sometimes he rebelled not only against other people but against himself, against what his body and his common sense told him. In the same way he would find himself short of breath for no apparent reason, or he'd get headaches and various cramps from lack of blood, sometimes he had terrible stomach aches after eating. He knew why.

Bobby took one hand off the bike to rub his stomach. He'd have to talk to Hank about this. It was something to do with the ice, he was certain, but he wasn't sure he'd like any suggestions Hank might have. In his ice form he didn't need to breath or eat. But in his ice form he couldn't be close to people. He didn't know how long he might have left before the ice was permanent, and he didn't want to waste it.

And it all came back to that, didn't it? His own innate desire to be close to people, and the ever increasing threat that he might never be able to get close again. It made him a little reckless emotionally. He wondered if he'd scared Jubilee last night, or if she'd been too drunk to worry. He was certain he'd concerned Jean Paul. Worse, he didn't know what Hank had said to him afterwards. He trusted Hank not to discuss Bobby's feelings for the older man with him, but what if he'd brought up Warren? Hank knew no more than Jean Paul. They might have puzzled together.

Bobby almost forced the Warren issue from his mind, but since he seemed to be facing worries head on today he chose not to let himself. He could admit to himself that he wanted more intimacy with Jean Paul, the kind the came with a relationship, and he could damn well admit to himself that once upon a time he'd wanted the same from Warren. He just prayed that it didn't go the same way with Jean Paul as it had with his old friend. It…shouldn't. Circumstances were very different. But if Jean Paul wasn't interested, then, well, it might. Friends would be the best he could hope for, but he wasn't sure if he could put himself through those months of torture again until he got over the attraction. It would get awkward, and one of them would probably leave.

Bobby could see the edge of the grounds just on the horizon. Why was he worrying about what might happen, when he knew what would happen? He'd turn to ice and that would be that. No chance of a romantic relationship at all.

Faced with those prospects, it occurred to Bobby that he'd probably leave anyway. He could go somewhere lonely, or full of ugly people. No need to torture himself if he didn't have to. He was the Iceman, he belonged somewhere like the North Pole. He could save the world like no one else. He could die having accomplished something. No one would have to worry about melting icecaps again, because Bobby was on the job. Cold, alone, unappreciated, but doing something worthwhile.

Bobby had to stop again and take of his helmet when the lights coming from the mansion began to blur dangerously. He told himself he hadn't had enough sleep, that he was getting melodramatic and overemotional. He sniffed and stared at the mansion, scrubbing at his eyes with a balled fist. He couldn't let go now, not yet. Just had to be strong a little longer. Had to survive. Even if, right now, he really didn't want to.


	10. part ten

**Part Ten**

_A/N: Damn, is this late? I can't work it out, I thought I was putting up the next chapter today. And I meant to do this first thing this morning. Oh well!_

Bobby seemed to be developing a list of people he absolutely had to talk to urgently. Warren was very high on that list. Jean Paul was pretty high, because Bobby wasn't sure how much longer he could go without finding out why he'd left that evening and what kind of state things were in between them. He probably ought to talk to Annie, too, but there was someone he could go to first.

"Do you sleep, Hank?" Bobby grinned.

"Indubitably," Hank grinned back.

"I'll never understand this early morning habit of yours," said Bobby shaking his head.

"I do my best work in the ante meridian," Hank informed him.

Bobby watched him quietly for a little while. They both knew what he wanted to discuss, but he wasn't willing to without prompting. What he'd said the other night… He'd told them before he'd managed to admit it to himself, and he'd spent all yesterday trying to get his head around it. And he really had to talk to Warren now, but he really didn't feel up to it, so he was hiding in Hank's lab and waiting to be challenged for it.

Hank, however, surprised him.

"I… I have some news for you," his older friend said hesitantly.

This didn't sound that good.

"I've been studying the samples you gave me," Hank went on, staring intently, and unnecessarily, into a test tube. "There's a very high concentration of antibodies and white blood cells."

"I'm fighting the secondary mutation," Bobby guessed correctly.

"Yes."

"I thought we already knew that?" Bobby asked cautiously. "I mean, from the itching."

"Yes, we did." Hank sighed and put the test tube away. He managed to bring himself to look at Bobby. "You see, my friend, I… I have come to the conclusion that this implies your… ice… is not, in fact… a secondary mutation."

They sat in silence and considered the implications of this.

"What are the implications of this?" Bobby said eventually, not liking any of the conclusions he had reached.

Hank smiled warmly at him. "It means, Bobby, that we may well be able to cure you."

"Cure me?" Bobby stared at him. "Seriously?"

"I'll need to take some more samples. If I can work out what antibodies are fighting this the most effectively then I may be able to simulate them in the lab, and boost your immune system thus. I'll also need to take some more samples from the ice. If we can establish the cause-"

"It started after the fight with Black Tom," Bobby said eagerly. "Do you really think we can cure this? It would be the best birthday present ever."

Hank sighed heavily. "Bobby, you must not get your hopes up too far."

Bobby calmed down immediately. "If it's not a secondary mutation it can kill me, can't it?" he said, abruptly bitter.

Hank reached out one comforting paw, but Bobby ignored it. "It's getting larger," he went on. "That means I'm losing. I…" He drew one long shaky breath. "Puts a lot in perspective," he said quietly. "Like the whole Jean Paul thing."

"Yes, I imagine it does," Hank said softly. "But you must keep the negative side as much in perspective as the positive. I will find some way to cure you, Bobby." His voice was rough with emotion, and Bobby was torn away from his self-pity to empathise with Hank for a moment. "I'm not letting you go, Bobby," Hank went on, voice low and pained. "I _will_ cure you."

Bobby stared at him for a moment. "I know you will," he choked. "There's no one who's hands I'd rather put my life in."

Hank smiled at him. "Working together, we can beat this. Can you put up with giving a few more samples? If we establish what's behind the ice there may even be a conventional cure. The ice may in fact be another of your body's defence mechanisms."

"You think perhaps it's poison, or something?" Bobby asked softly. "And my body chose to isolate it this way?"

"Possibly, though it wouldn't explain why the ice is growing," Hank admitted.

"I've been having stomach cramps and some problems breathing, recently," Bobby admitted reluctantly. "Do you suppose my organs are beginning to change to ice?"

Hank looked horrified. "Possibly," he swallowed, "though… though it may simply be the ice is pressing against them. We will need to take a full body scan."

"Can you do that here?" Bobby asked, staring around the lab.

"Yes, though it will take me a few days to recalibrate the equipment for your particular problem." Hank was still trying to hide his upset at this new development. "You might want to spend more time in ice form, just to be safe. Especially if you start finding it hard to breath. I know you don't always take me advice, Bobby, but you better take this." Hank stood over him. "Bobby, please."

Bobby nodded. "Don't worry, Hank, I'm not going to let myself die just out of stubbornness."

"Good," Hank said firmly. "Now, until I get the equipment sorted out, I'd like to take a few more blood samples, to check for change."

Bobby pulled off his shirt. "So, steal my blood, you vampire," he grinned.

"Vampire? I am more Doctor Frankenstein and Count Dracula," Hank pointed out. As he checked the needle, he added, "So, Jean Paul?"

Bobby laughed nervously. "Knew we'd get to that eventually."

"I hypothesised that there was an ulterior motive there, did I not?"

"Ow! Yes, you did," Bobby said ruefully, pressing the cotton pad Hank gave him to the blood welling up from his chest. "I didn't know it then, though."

Hank regarded him. "You didn't know?"

"Well…" Bobby shifted uncomfortably. "It's still all a bit confusing right now. The threat of imminent death seems to be clearing it up a bit," he added softly. "And the alcohol."

"Don't feel pressured into doing anything you wouldn't otherwise," Hank told him. "You're not going to die."

"If it wasn't for the ice, I'm not sure I'd even have pursued the friendship," Bobby admitted. "I thought I was going to end up permanently single, and, well, I guess I knew at a kind of subconscious level that I liked him because otherwise I'd be attached Jubilee or someone right now. It's not really something to base a friendship on, is it?"

"I think the attraction is mutual," Hank told him warmly. "And that is something to base a relationship on."

Bobby squirmed happily. "You think?"

"I have been speaking to Annie," Hank told him, grinning.

"I'm not really _au fait_ with this whole, male-male thing," Bobby sighed. "I can't get my head around it. I keep finding it so hard to sleep. I thought I was over all this," he exclaimed. "I feel sixteen again."

Hank cocked his head to one side. "This is something to do with Warren, isn't it?"

Bobby groaned. "Don't ask any more about that, please, Hank. I made a promise to Warren and I broke it. That's why he flipped. I don't want to make it any worse."

"I'm not going to reveal that you said anything," Hank said quietly.

"I know," Bobby said, anguished. "But it's a principal thing. I've never made a promise like that to any one else. I can't believe I even brought it up before. No matter how drunk I was, it's inexcusable."

"You haven't spoken to him yet," Hank stated.

"I'm going to," Bobby told him. "There's so many things I have to get done. I can't get my head around half of it."

"It is all happening at once," Hank agreed. "Don't rush yourself, Bobby. That is all the advice I can give you."

"It's good advice. So, what precisely did Annie say to you?"

Hank chuckled. "I think you should talk to Jean Paul yourself."

"I don't think I'm up to that just yet. I've… I've been treating it all as a joke so far. Every time it gets tense between us and there's electricity, I make a joke out of it." He stared into the distance. "I want it so badly," he murmured. "He had his arm around me and I wanted the car to be miles away. I kissed him, god, I kissed him and I pretended it was all part of an on-running joke about the couples in the movie theatre. I'm so… I'm scared. Fuck. Why me? Why do I have to deal with all this? But…" Bobby shook his head. "Can't I just fall for Jubilee instead?" he said plaintively.

Hank wrapped an arm around him briefly before returning to his work with Bobby's blood. "This is who you are," Hank told him. "I know you'll work it out with yourself, and I am certain you'll work it out with him."

Bobby chuckled. "I wish I had your confidence in me," he admitted. "But… It's good having you here. I need someone to talk to about this. Or babble incoherently to about this, anyway. I tried talking to myself," he added with a grin. "I'm a terrible listener."

Hank laughed. "Indubitably," he said wickedly.

* * *

It was over an hour before Bobby could bring himself to seek out Warren. He was down by the lake, skimming stones. Bobby stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered towards him, taking a winding path. By the time he reached Warren's side Warren had stopped skimming stones and was watching him. 

"Tell me you were drunk," Warren said before Bobby could open his mouth.

"You know I was."

"Tell me you didn't mean any of what you said about Jean Paul."

"Hank says it's not a secondary mutation. I might be about to drop dead at any second."

Warren stared at him. He paled. Bobby walked up to him slowly.

"I'm not taking back what I said about Jean Paul," Bobby said haltingly.

"You're desperate," Warren stuttered. "You're not dying, are you?"

Bobby took a deep breath. "Not really, I suppose. I might die. I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"It's not a secondary mutation," Bobby said weakly. He spread his hands. "It means it's almost certainly reversible, but it also means it's possibly malicious and since the ice is getting larger I'm obviously losing against it and we don't know how long I've got or what it will do."

Warren ran a hand across his eyes. "Hank'll cure you," he said eventually.

"Of course he will," Bobby agreed.

"So you can actually answer my question."

"About Jean Paul?"

"Yes, about Jean Paul."

Bobby stared across the lake. There was still some early morning mist curling across it. It was beautiful, he realised. He might not see it again. He'd seen it a few times before, but he'd never thought of it as beautiful. But when it might be the last time he saw it… Suddenly everything was beautiful.

"I told you, I'm not taking it back," Bobby said quietly, wrapping his arms around himself. He was wearing the jacket Jean Paul had given him again. He dug in the pocket for the motorbike keys. Warren had probably paid for the majority of the bike.

"Bobby, you were very drunk," Warren said, slightly pleadingly.

"I'm not now," Bobby pointed out. "Look, I know this isn't about him."

"I don't like him."

"I know that," Bobby told him. "But this isn't about him."

Warren ran his hand through his blond hair and stared at Bobby. "You were drunk, I know."

"I shouldn't have brought it up regardless," Bobby said. "It's been ten years. If I can not talk about it for three thousand six hundred and whatever days, then I should have been able to keep my mouth shut one more night."

Warren clenched his fists. "I'm giving you a way out here, Bobby. Take it. For God's sake, take it."

"I wouldn't have said it sober," Bobby admitted, "but I shouldn't have said it drunk."

Warren stepped up to Bobby. "You swore you'd never bring it up, even when we were alone," he said coldly.

"I know."

"And you brought it up."

"I know," Bobby repeated, rather more tersely.

"After I suggested that you weren't gay."

Bobby frowned. "Well, yes, and I agreed with you."

"Bobby…" Warren stared out across the lake. "I think you're projecting any… feelings you might have for, well, me, on to Jean Paul, who is more likely to return them."

Bobby's jaw dropped.

"I don't want you to see him any more. It's not healthy."

Bobby's head snapped round. "What right to you have to say that to me?" he gaped.

"I'm your friend," Warren said firmly. "I have your best interests at heart."

"But you don't trust me!" Bobby gaped. "Friend? Doesn't sound like it!"

"Bobby, you're lonely, you're scared, you've just had a painful shock from Lorna's return…" Angel's voice cracked under the strain and gained a few decibels.

"You're in denial," Bobby snarled back, voice considerably raised as well.

"You don't like men!" Warren shouted. "You're one of my best friends. This is… you're messed up!"

Bobby turned away and began to walk quickly. "I don't want to hear this, Warren," he yelled over his shoulder. "I can't hear this from you."

"Bobby!" Warren swept back his powerful wings and in a few short strokes he was in front of Bobby again. "I don't want you to do this. I know what's going on in your head, and if you're trying to make me jealous it won't work! I'm with Paige, and I'm happy with Paige."

Bobby stared at him. "Paige? What the fuck has Paige got to do with this?"

"I know you have feelings for me!"

"Yes, hatred!" Bobby shoved him away. "Horror. Shock and disgust."

"You've never got over it," Warren insisted, still chasing him.

"I did," Bobby shouted. "I did! And I like men. Not just you, Warren, but men, in general." He was panting heavily and his eyes were wider than they ever should have been. "I… I'm attracted to men," he gasped. "It wasn't a one off. It wasn't just being a scared teenager. And I did it with Gambit, too. And I want to do it with Jean Paul."

Warren stared at him blankly. "You can't be. You… you fucking liar!" he snapped suddenly. "You've been lying to all of us for fucking years!"

"Lying? I wanted to talk to you!" Bobby spluttered. "I've spent years lying to myself because of you."

"I don't want to hear it!" Warren began to beat his powerful wings, preparing to take off. "I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to be a part of this any more!"

"So you're flying away? Coward!" Bobby shrieked at him. "Talk to me, Warren, fucking talk to me!"

"Stop making me part of this. Get over it, it was ten years ago!" And he was gone before Bobby could scream one final reply to that.


	11. part eleven

**Part Eleven**

_A/N: This is the chapter where the smut kicks off. If you don't like m/m smut, stop reading about halfway down and just pretend. And this isn't the end of the fic. Just in case people wondered.___

Bobby caught Jean Paul grading papers at lunch time. He'd been wandering around outside prior to that, walking round and around the lake. Why were the revelations he hid from himself always revealed in sporadic outbursts to friends? Things he couldn't bear to think he was happy to shout.

Jean Paul looked up as he entered and looked back down at his papers almost immediately.

"You wanna go out tonight?" Bobby asked with forced casualness. "I'm in the mood for coffee, and we could take my new bike out for a spin."

"I am busy," Jean Paul said shortly.

Bobby halted midstep. "What?"

"I am busy. Sorry."

"Okay… how about now?" Bobby offered desperately.

Jean Paul shot him another very brief look and tapped the papers he was marking with the end of his pen.

"Tomorrow?" Bobby asked.

"I will be busy. Sorry, Bobby, but I am very busy for a very long time."

"Really? Because it sounds more like you're fobbing me off," Bobby said crisply. "I haven't had a day that sucked this badly for months."

Jean Paul flinched, but kept his head down. He'd made his decision. Now was the time to start cooling things down between the two of them. Only a few more months before he could take a nice long holiday. The Caribbean, maybe. That would be nice. Or he could always go back to Montreal.

"Jean Paul," Bobby said softly, "I need to talk to you."

Against his better judgement, Jean Paul found himself looking at Bobby. He looked young and scared.

"You can not talk to anyone else?" Jean Paul asked.

"No, I can't," Bobby swallowed. "I've just had a terrible fight with Warren."

"Just?" Jean Paul frowned. "I thought that was hours ago."

Bobby flushed suddenly. "Did… could people hear us?" he asked in horror.

"What? No. But Warren came back earlier, slamming windows."

"Oh, I see."

They looked at each other for a few more moments. Jean Paul could feel himself wavering, but he forced himself to hold firm.

"I am sorry, Bobby, I simply can not be available tonight. I have been neglecting my work so much for you lately. Maybe next week?"

Bobby blinked at him. "Maybe," he said quietly. "I'm sorry for keeping you from your work." As Jean Paul examined that last statement for sarcasm or irony, Bobby got up from the table and left in silence.

* * *

"Hey, where's ya partner in crime?" the girl behind the counter looked at Bobby with concern.

"Busy," Bobby said bitterly.

"You two have a fight?"

"I look that bad, huh?" Bobby smiled weakly. "I had a blazing row with one of my other friends. If it hadn't been for that then JP and I probably would have fought, but all my aggression kinda got sapped out of me."

"Baby," she clucked sympathetically. "Hey, don't you pay for that. I'll put it on his tab, shall I?" She grinned at him.

"Yeah," Bobby grinned back. "Cool."

He took his coffee and cream bun to a table and settled in, helmet tucked beneath his seat. Great bike. Bobby leant back in his seat and began to read the varnished newspapers on the table top. It was the first time he'd come here alone, but he thought of this as his table, not their table. It had the paper from the day of his birth on it. A girl was singing in the corner of the room, the girl who'd winked at him the first time he'd come, and he raised the tall mug to her, earning himself a flirtatious wave.

It was strange, being here alone, but not that bad. He felt more able to think. Maybe he associated this place with being freer to express himself. He smiled at his own fancy and stuck his finger in the cream bun, scooping out the thick whipped cream and sucking it from his finger slowly. It was sexual, he decided, it had 'implications'. And he could enjoy that. He was a mature adult, with a mature sexual appetite. Which happened to include both sexes.

That… Both sexes. Both. Men and Women. He still couldn't quite get his head around it. He knew all the mechanics of women, but what was he meant to do with men other than what he'd done already, which he could have done with women anyway? He'd never fantasised of doing anything with a guy. Well, not anything specific to a guy. He had dreamed about guys. And that was okay, and normal, because he was sexually attracted to guys.

It still didn't feel normal, not quite. But he felt vaguely obliged to pretend to himself it did. He didn't know how long he had left. It could be forever, it could just be tonight. So he had to get his head around this now. Before, it hadn't really mattered. It hadn't been going to be long before he was unable to participate in any relationship, hetero or homosexual, so it wasn't worth worrying about. But this was so different.

There was a thunk and his attention was drawn back to the present. A second motorcycle helmet had landed on the table, and following the hand resting on it and up the arm and passed the shoulder there was a very beautiful, very delicate, very strong face. Pointed ears and all, it was Jean Paul, and his face was twisted with concern and guilt.

"You came," Bobby breathed.

"Je suis desolee," Jean Paul murmured.

"Uh, sit down," Bobby gestured. It unnerved him, having Jean Paul stand over him like that.

"I am sorry," Jean Paul repeated, still hovering.

"You came," Bobby told him again. "Just sit, okay? You're forgiven," he added, realising this was the key to unlock Jean Paul's knees. The Canadian collapsed into a chair on cue.

"I should not have put you off," Jean Paul said weakly.

"Well, no, but you're here." Bobby smiled at him, and pushed half the cream bun over. "And you already paid for my stuff, so you're doing quite well really."

Jean Paul didn't ask, but accepted the sickly pastry. "You wanted to talk?" he said hopelessly.

Bobby stared at him long enough to make Jean Paul uncomfortable. "Did you fly here?" he changed the subject in the end.

"Yes. I brought the helmet because I was hoping you might allow me on the motorbike, as you promised."

Bobby grinned. "Sure."

They sat in awkward silence for a moment. Bobby watched the singer with uncomfortable intensity. He drummed his fingers on the table, and Jean Paul began to wonder if perhaps Bobby hadn't been happier alone.

"This shouldn't be hard to say to you," Bobby said, quietly enough that Jean Paul almost missed it. "Except, well, I partly blame you. Turning up and being gay and out and not caring what people thought. It's rather harder for those of us who do worry about how we appear to others."

"Bobby?" Jean Paul had a sinking feeling that he knew what was coming and he couldn't begin to imagine how he'd react when he heard it.

"A few years ago," Bobby began, "I was suffering from insomnia. I'd had a dream, a wet dream, about a guy and I was very determined that it was perfectly normal for a heterosexual guy to dream about things like that and it didn't bother me at all and that I was going to drink myself into a complete stupor so there was no chance I'd dream like that again."

"Bobby," Jean Paul fumbled, "are you trying to say you are, are, are like me?"

Bobby turned to look at him. "I think I'm bisexual. I've spent years managing to ignore half my sexual preference, but it gets rather harder when there's someone around to identify with. I felt like part of me was rebelling."

Jean Paul reached out, but couldn't work out why and was left with his hand hovering over the table. Bobby took it and squeezed.

"I'm confused right now," he said softly. "I thought you might be able to help, but I think now it's something I've got to think through on my own."

"I want to help," Jean Paul said weakly.

"Thanks," Bobby grinned.

"Bobby…" Jean Paul held his hand and looked away, wondering if now was the right time. "You have nothing to fear, except yourself."

"That's… deep." Bobby chuckled.

"Tell me how you came to realise this," Jean Paul insisted. "I might be able to identify."

"You want to swap stories like teenaged girls?" Bobby grinned. He dug his finger into the cream again and licked it, thoughtfully. He watched Jean Paul's eyes follow his tongue, so he began to suck on the digit to see the reaction. Jean Paul's lips parted. "Well," Bobby purred, "as I was saying, a few years ago I was suffering from sexuality related insomnia."

"Yes?" Jean Paul murmured.

Bobby dug his finger into the cream filling again and held it out. "Taste it," he commanded. Jean Paul looked baffled, so Bobby pressed the finger to Jean Paul's lips. He was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath and slowly, so slowly, the parting of those lips and the first touch of a hot wet tongue.

"I was sitting in what is now the student's lounge," Bobby continued with his story. "I watched porn and drank beer."

"Bobby," Jean Paul moaned, pulling away from the still half coated finger. "What are you…"

"I'm seducing you," Bobby smiled suddenly. "I've had people telling me that you wouldn't be adverse to it."

"Oooh," Jean Paul breathed.

"Do you want to hear about my sexual awakening?" Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Well, one of them. I had this tendency to repress afterwards. Always found an excuse to put it behind me. Never had the right role model."

"Mon Dieu, Bobby," Jean Paul gulped. "You do not need to try so hard."

Bobby's confident smile wavered. "I just… I don't want to piss about any more. I'm sick of trying to work things out. I just want to know, now."

"Don't rush yourself." Jean Paul echoed Hanks sentiments. It wasn't something Bobby wanted to hear.

"I've had years of false starts," Bobby told him. "I mean, one night with Gambit almost had me certain, just like I am now, but I let it go and took it too slow and I retreated from it again. So now I push myself, and I think it's going to turn out okay. Is it?"

Jean Paul, despite reservations, let himself say what _he _wanted to say, not what he thought Bobby needed to hear right now. "Of course, Bobby."

Bobby's smile returned. "I…" He couldn't quite say it. "How best should I seduce you?" he substituted.

Jean Paul responded, "tell me more about this encounter with Gambit."

"Jealous?" Bobby smirked. "I've heard you think quite highly of him."

"You would know why."

"I didn't then. He was just Remy. He appeared with a case of beer while I was watching two girls make out in a hot tub. I was hideously embarrassed, but he laughed and joined me." Bobby took a sip of his coffee. "It had to be about three AM. We sat and made lewd comments and got drunk. If you thought the other night was interesting, it was nothing compared with that night. I can't believe I still remember it."

Bobby took a bite out of his cream pastry and looked inside it for more cream. He found enough to make it worth discarding the dry shell and lapped the dumpy cream from the base of his knuckles. Jean Paul leant over and sucked the swirl from the tip of his finger. They shared a warm look.

"It finished, and it was late," Bobby went on, voice much huskier and deeper than before. "We didn't know each other, Gambit and I, that well back then, though even I knew he was going through a rough patch with Rogue. I think I had some idea that I should encourage him to talk about it, but my alcohol befuddled tongue managed to steer the conversation in another direction entirely.

"He told me, it somehow being relevant, that when it came to porn he preferred to watch two girls go at it, but to read about two guys. I told him that was rather gay. He laughed at me. Told me it only made sense, since it was much easier to identify with the sensations when reading about guys, and accused me of being close minded.

"I told him no, basically. I even told him I'd had a gay experience before, just to make my point."

"Had you?"

"Yes, in fact. He didn't believe me though," Bobby breezed on determinedly. He wasn't going to bring the whole Warren incident up _again_. "So I kissed him. Long, and slow. Lots of tongue."

Jean Paul's breath caught in his throat and Bobby noticed. "Are you enjoying this?" he purred.

"Oui," Jean Paul said in a slightly strangled tone.

"Should we decamp to the bathroom?" Bobby asked.

Jean Paul's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "You think we should…"

"Well, this story is about to get a little too X-rated for such a public forum," Bobby told him, leaning close over the table.

"Nngh," Jean Paul said.

Bobby stood up slowly and walked around the table. He let his hand run down Jean Paul's shoulder and back as he walked past. Jean Paul turned in his seat and for a moment just watched as Bobby sauntered towards the large bathrooms towards the back of the café. He climbed to his feet and, hunching slightly with his hands casually folded in front of him, followed Bobby.

Bobby was leaning in the door of the disabled bathroom, the largest and most spacious. He crooked a finger at Jean Paul.

It was insane, but it was so insane it dreamlike and Jean Paul would do anything to act out some of his dreams. He stepped past Bobby and put the lid down on the toilet, sitting down with his legs open. Bobby perched on one of the rails meant to help someone stand up. Some still chivalric part of him had checked before they entered that there was no one disabled in the restaurant.

"So, Bobby, tell me, what happened next?"

Bobby ran his hand along Jean Paul's sharp jawline, angling his head towards him. "Well, we were sitting together on the couch, him with his legs drawn up and me sprawled everywhere, and I leant in, like this, and kissed him, like this." Bobby bent forwards and opened his mouth over Jean Paul's. Jean Paul's whole body moved towards him in one convulsive jerk. Bobby traced the tip of his tongue along Jean Paul's bottom lip before dipping into his mouth, carefully teasing the older, more experienced man. He pulled back slowly, keeping their faces close.

"He was amused, not impressed," Bobby whispered. "So we went at it again, and again, and again. We must have made out for hours." He kissed Jean Paul again, slow and tender and controlling the passion and the power he could feel building up in Jean Paul. "We don't have time for that," Bobby told him, "so why don't we skip to the next bit?"

"The next bit?" Jean Paul murmured. He nibbled Bobby's bottom lip, teeth firm but tender. "What happened next?"

"He felt I was still too blasé about it," Bobby hummed, nuzzling Jean Paul's cheek. "He decided to push me. I was hard, god, I was aching. And he was too, but as the less experienced I received preferential treatment. He opened my fly with his teeth." He paused, to let it sink in. Before he could continue Jean Paul's head suddenly dipped and he gasped as the rough zip grazed across his swollen erection.

"And then what did he do?" Jean Paul asked, voice muffled in Bobby's lap. Bobby opened his legs further, suddenly nervous.

"He sucked me off," Bobby said.

Jean Paul's head came up quickly. "Do it properly," he hissed. "Do not ruin this now." He met Bobby's frightened eyes with a challenge.

"I don't reme-" Bobby stopped himself. That didn't matter, did it? He swallowed difficultly. "He took me in, all at once," he began, hushed. "He took me – oow – he took me in and held my entire lee-ength for a few long moments. Letting me get used to the idea," he panted. "And he pulled away again, and looked at me for a moment for confirmation. I nodded, and he did something different then, with his tongue on the head. Yes, YES… that… Oh god. He kissed the tip then, laughing under his breath," as Jean Paul was doing now, amused at Bobby's insistence on continuing his narrative, "and took me in again, up a-aa-and down. That for a while," Bobby let it go for a moment, head lolling back against the cold tiles on the wall as Jean Paul skilfully worked his cock. As he felt the tension build inside him he tried to bring his imagination back into play. "I was about to come," he hissed, "and he pulled away, smirking." Jean Paul paused before he did as Bobby described.

"And then what did he do?" Jean Paul asked, wondering if Bobby did remember. He pulled Bobby's trousers down a little further and kissed his thighs while Bobby tried to recover enough coherency to go on.

"He took my balls in his mouth," Bobby said.

Jean Paul smirked against the soft, pale flesh of Bobby's leg and let his tongue flick out first. He did as Bobby said, sucking slightly. Bobby threw his head back and moaned.

"You liked it," Jean Paul pulled away for a moment. "You liked it a lot."

"So he didn't stop," Bobby snapped, still staring at the ceiling. Jean Paul took the hint and returned to his ministrations.

Despite having a few more ideas to explore Bobby let Jean Paul take full control, suckling on his balls and pulling in his cock with one hand until he came. Jeans around his knees, head bruised against the wall, amazingly sexy man between his legs… Bobby stared at the ceiling and ran his hand through Jean Paul's hair, allowing the man to sit up again and move back onto the closed toilet. Bobby fell from his awkward perch to bruise himself on the floor, looking as undignified as possible. Cold on the tiles.

They watched each other.

"And then," Jean Paul said slowly, "what did you do?"

Bobby panted and climbed to his feet, pulling his trousers up and zipping himself in. He didn't let his eyes leave Jean Paul's.

"I did this," he said carefully. This was theone part he'd tried so hard to forget, but he'd never reallysettled on a reason why. "I panicked because I knew I ought to reciprocate. So I tried, I really did." He knelt in front of Jean Paul and with all the trembles of the previous time unbuttoned the expensive slacks. Jean Paul was still hard, maybe even harder than previously. Bobby swallowed. Had Jean Paul enjoyed doing that? He wasn't sure he could. "I don't think I did it right," Bobby said, mired in memory again. "I... I licked it." And he did. He ran his tongue from the base of Jean Paul's cock to the tip, lingering for a second, tasting the precum.

Jean Paul's hand ran through Bobby's hair. "Do not do anything you are not comfortable with," he murmured fondly.

"I lost my nerve then. He understood, of course he fucking understood," Bobby said bitterly. "Everyone always understands. Treat me like such a fucking innocent, such a virgin." He raised his head to look Jean Paul in the eye. "I gave him a hand job," he said simply. "No one pushed me, so I didn't push myself, and the next day I lapsed back into my utter conviction that it was just a fluke, like the time before and any time that might come after, and I was straight. Obviously I was straight. Everyone treated me like I was straight. Everyone assumed I was straight, including me."

Bobby thrust himself up then for a brief, hot kiss with Jean Paul, hard and pushy. Pulling back he flashed him a smile and then disappeared down again, and Jean Paul thrust without thinking into the wet warm cavity. Bobby choked and jerked his head back.

"Desolee," Jean Paul breathed.

Bobby ignored him and wrapped his mouth around Jean Paul's cock again, just the tip, and settled his hands on Jean Paul's hips to keep him still. Slowly, tentatively, he began to move up and down Jean Paul's shaft, not able to take it all into his mouth at once, not able to take half, but taking as much as he could. He licked the cock again, amused as the way it twitched, and let his hand do some of the work. Not because he was ashamed to do it this time, but because he wanted to and couldn't. He let his tongue tease the slit at the top and his teeth along the length and Jean Paul was writhing desperately and occasionally his hips would buck without warning despite his best efforts and it was kind of exciting, that way, with all these new things and strange challenges and Jean Paul was screaming something in French and oh god that was hotter than he'd expected and it hit the back of his throat and he was gagging but he had to swallow or he'd throw up and oh god…

Bobby choked and coughed and managed to keep his lunch where it belonged. Jean Paul had his head on the toilet cistern and his hands in Bobby's hair and a smile on his face Bobby hadn't seen before. Collapsed on the bathroom floor, propped up on his own hands and shaking like an earthquake.

"Oh, Bobby," Jean Paul stared down at him. "Je t'aime."

"Huh?" Bobby's nose wrinkled in confusion.

Jean Paul laughed and stood up, taking Bobby's hand pulling him to his feet and holding him warm against him, sharing a long kiss. He could taste his own semen, which amused him, though he knew for next time to try and warn Bobby in English.

"So," Bobby said, pulling away and discovering to his dismay that they'd never even locked the cubicle door, "motorbike?"


	12. part twelve

**Part Twelve**

_A/N: More m/m smut, though less graphic than before. Yes, you finally find out what happened with Warren, in one of my pluperfect flashback sequences. Does anyone find the tense irritating?_

Jean Paul wrapped his arms around Bobby's waist and would have buried his head in Bobby's shoulder if it wasn't for the two helmets keeping them chastely apart. Bobby pressed back against him in response, and turned his head enough for Jean Paul to see him grinning through the darkened visor. He revved the engine of the bike happily and knocked the kickstand away. Jean Paul tightened his grip in anticipation and tucked his legs up, not liking the sense of instability inherent in the position.

Bobby released his grip on the bike for a moment to squeeze Jean Paul's hand. The heady sensation that had led him to the bathroom was returning. And now they were heading home. The bike throbbed between his legs as they took off down the road. He wished he could talk to Jean Paul.

Jean Paul's hands were low around his waist. At one point they slipped back to rest on his hips and he felt Jean Paul pull back. He growled, inaudible over the snarl of the bike, and pressed back. Jean Paul took the hint and let his hands rest back in Bobby's lap. Bobby surprised himself by being half hard already. Jean Paul seemed impressed as his hands explored Bobby's denim.

Could you have sex on a motorbike? You'd want the guy behind and the girl in front. Or, well, one guy behind and one guy in front. There were mechanics here Bobby still wasn't quite sure of. Hell, there was probably terminology he wasn't aware of. Were there names for the guy who, uh, did the thrusting and the guy who was, well, thrust into? But Jean Paul's roving hands suggested a perfect alternative that Bobby had no problem getting his head around. Bobby ground back against Jean Paul.

Bobby pouted inside his helmet when Jean Paul stopped abruptly, but the sight of the turning for the Institute flying past distracted him from this tragedy. Oops. There were other exits, but Bobby was well aware of what he was doing as they spend past those as well. His thighs tightened around the bike and caught Jean Paul off guard as they roared down a track Jean Paul probably hadn't even seen.

Jean Paul changed his grip on Bobby from firmly holding to clinging. He could reassure himself that if the bike went over he could fly, preferably taking Bobby with him. But he'd still rather stop and find out what the hell Bobby thought he was doing. The lane - there was no other word for it, and even 'lane' was rather too generous - was badly paved and completely dark, trees overhanging on either side. It was also particularly windy, something Bobby seemed to be immensely enjoying.

It occurred to Jean Paul that he hadn't even checked if Bobby had a license for this thing. He'd obviously learnt to ride at some point, but as they clocked up 80 mph through the forest Jean Paul wondered if anyone had taught Bobby to ride safely.

His doubts crystallised as a pair of headlights materialised in front of them. Bobby's reaction was immediate, but it wasn't enough. Jean Paul put one foot to the ground and pushed, sharply, managing to lift both Bobby and the bike a few brief metres onto the slight bank, slowing them down as he did so. They lay there, a confused pile of men and metal, as the truck grumbled past.

Jean Paul sat up and pulled off his helmet. "What the fuck did you think you were doing?" he roared in French.

Bobby untangled himself from the bike and stared at him, miserably. "I guess I don't need to ask what you just said," he sighed. "I'm sorry."

He'd only been fooling around. It wasn't as though anyone had been hurt. Scott had had no right to shout at him like that. He'd embarrassed him in front of all of the others. They hadn't even tried to stand up for him. He'd decamped to the showers to feel sorry for himself. It had been like being yelled at by his father.

Jean Paul reached out and pulled Bobby's helmet off him, almost taking his ears off with it. He ran long fingers through Bobby's messy hair as he let the anger bleed away.

"Where are we?" he asked eventually.

"Maybe half a mile from the institute," Bobby shrugged. "I just thought it would be… fun. Exciting."

"We do not need more excitement in our lives," Jean Paul said darkly. "Excitement and near death experiences are, as usual, intricately linked."

Bobby hunched his shoulders and drew his head in. "I said I was sorry," he mumbled.

He'd realised that they had to be done in there by now, which meant they were avoiding him. He'd been in the shower so long it had grown cold. They had been just like the showers at his old school gym, right down to the mildew in the shape of Argentina, though here it was on the opposite wall. With a sickening jolt, he'd realised he was homesick.

Jean Paul forced a smile. "Of course." He was very irritated with Bobby, but he didn't dare show it. It had looked like this evening was going to be one hundred percent perfect. Bobby hadn't even been mad at him for turning him down earlier. So right now it might be best to just let it go, if he could. It wasn't exactly starting as he meant to go on, but if he could stop Bobby from panicking and trying to pretend nothing happened for long enough to get him used to a same sex relationship then he'd be able to set things straight.

Jean Paul wasn't surprised when a sense of foreboding settled on him. That dread was the way he seemed to start most relationships. And they never lasted very long.

He had missed his parents. He had missed his school. He had really missed his girlfriend, even if she had been adamant that it was over before he'd even left. He's been mortified that he'd spent so long crying. He was a superhero now. Superheroes didn't cry, even if they were just teenaged boys.

Bobby was standing the bike back up again and checking it over. He felt wretched, and Jean Paul's fake forgiveness wasn't helping. It sent sparks of annoyance down his own spine. He didn't need this patronising pardon. He'd made a mistake, and sure, he didn't want to be hated for it, but trying to pretend a mistake hadn't even been made was worse.

It was, quite simply, the most excruciatingly embarrassing moment of Bobby's life. Standing there, hand on cock, as Warren walked in naked. Staring at each other. And then Warren continuing, deliberately choosing the shower next to Bobby, and grunting something about the cold. Bobby had mumbled something about missing his girlfriend.

Bobby snatched his helmet from the ground and turned to face Jean Paul. "Stop smiling," he snapped. "Or fake it a little more convincingly."__

Jean Paul was taken aback. "What would you rather I did?" he spluttered.

_Warren had asked about her, and Bobby had forced himself to dredge up painful memories. He did miss her and was hurt that she'd left him, even though he'd been trying to keep her safe. Warren had admired his chivalry. That had meant a lot to Bobby._

"Yell. You yell at everyone else, but I can't think of a single time you've yelled at me," Bobby told him. "I've got to irritate you. I irritate everyone, sooner or later."

"Yes, you do irritate me sometimes," Jean Paul admitted. "As does everyone else."

"So be irritated! I almost got us both killed. You frowned a bit and then… nothing." Bobby spread his hands. "I like you, Jean Paul. I don't want you all bottled up. Trust me," he smiled knowingly, "no good _ever_ comes of that."

Bobby had reached out and touched Warren's wing, fascinated by the way the water ran off it. Warren had smiled at him. Bobby had admired him for a while now, looking like some religious sculpture from Italy, all firm jaw and rippling chess and long sweeping wings. He had to know he was that beautiful, had to be inherently aware of it in the same way Bobby was inherently aware that he wasn't.

Jean Paul stared at Bobby, and then smiled genuinely. "D'accord, yes, I was angry. I do not like being in a situation where not only do I have no control, but I do not know what to expect from that situation. So while I might in fact enjoy speeding through deserted roads in the dead of night with my arms around someone I care for, I would prefer it if you told me that was what I was doing. Otherwise it makes me nervous, which makes me angry."

Bobby smiled at him. "Okay! Okay. See, we've got that straight now. It won't happen again. If you don't yell at me in future, I want it to be because I don't give you cause to, not because you don't feel able to."

They had been so close. Bobby had still been hard, and still aware of it, but he had also been so aware of how close Warren was and how cool Warren was and how brave and how handsome. Warren had just been ignoring it. What did he expect Bobby to do, start jerking off again?

"After all your talk of justifying things to yourself and forgetting things, I want to be careful that I give you no reason to want to." Jean Paul stepped in, close. "I am not going to let you let this go," he said possessively.

"I don't want to let it go," Bobby told him, suddenly aware of how much he did want to.

Bobby had wanted to kiss him. Bobby had wanted to run his hand down Warren's wing, up his shoulder, and round the back of his head to bring him in for a nice long, slow kiss. His own cowardice had appalled him. He had remembered standing in the shower, a little like this, watching as the jocks beat up that kid who'd come out the day before because one guy thought he might have been looking. He'd seen them do it a few more times, and he'd listened to the constant jeering, until one day the guy was gone. And with the others, when the suicide rumour reached them, he'd laughed at the guy's stupidity. He hadn't quite dared to do more than nod when the others said the world was better off without his sort. Those nights that followed, he'd dream about the boy coming back from the dead. The guy would tell everyone how Bobby was just like him and then show them, and those dreams invariably ended with sticky sheets and sweaty limbs.

Jean Paul pulled him into his arms and kissed him. Bobby held him, tightly, and kissed back. He was scared. Far too much was happening.

"Are you alright?" Warren had asked. He'd reached over casually, and placed a hand on Bobby's hip. For one brief, shining moment, Bobby had thought the attraction might be mutual.

He had to get past this confusion and push past any related fear. He had to tie up loose ends. He had to take what he wanted, when he wanted it, before he was unable to.

"I miss my girlfriend," Bobby had mumbled. "I- I miss her loads. I miss having a girlfriend, you know? Having someone to be close to, like that. Friends are great, all you guys are great, but it's not the same."

He was grateful for the erection straining in his jeans. Proof that he did want this, proof that he was doing the right thing. And he didn't even have to worry about what anyone else might think, because they were utterly alone in the dark woods.

"I miss that too," Warren had said.

Bobby kissed with wild abandon, half leaning on the bike and half on Jean Paul, hands clutching at clothes and hair and bared skin, hips bucking against Jean Paul.

Jean Paul pulled back, gasping for air. "Oh, Bobby," he moaned.

"Take me," Bobby said.

"Take… me," Bobby had stuttered. "I'll… let me touch you."

"What?"

Bobby kissed him hungrily, trying to turn back time. He traced his tongue along his jaw and cheekbones and nibbled his ear. Hands roved around Jean Paul's waistband.

Warren had stared at him, and Bobby had thought he was going to be sick. Then Warren had reached down and taken Bobby's cock in his hand. He'd brushed the top of it with his thumb. Bobby had swallowed hard and reached out for Warren's still flaccid length. Slowly, he had begun to move his hand up and down.

"Bobby, Bobby," Jean Paul pushed him away. "Bobby, what are you doing?"

"I don't know," Bobby managed. "Fuck me. Something, anything."

It was a bit like jerking off, except the wrist angles were all wrong. They hadn't taken their eyes off each other the entire time. They hadn't looked down, they hadn't touched anywhere else. They'd even kept the same rhythm. As the cold water poured between them, they'd worked each other. Bobby had wanted to kiss him so badly.

"Bobby?" Jean Paul took him by the shoulders. "Why are you doing this?"

"I want to…" Bobby shook his head. "Forget it," he murmured. "Just keep kissing me."

Warren had upped the pace first. There was a look on his face Bobby hadn't particularly liked, something between disgust and regret. He had been thrusting into Bobby's hand. God, that was power. When Warren came, he'd come for Bobby, because of Bobby. That was power. He had needed Bobby.

Jean Paul had doubts, but Bobby was sucking on his neck now and had hands inside his shirt, exploring. Jean Paul ground against Bobby's hips and slid one hand down the back of Bobby's jeans.

Bobby had come first, inevitably.

Bobby came, grunting, so abruptly that Jean Paul was taken completely by surprised. He looped his arms around Jean Paul's shoulders and rested his weight there, like he was about to collapse. Jean Paul held him, still amazed. It had been barely an hour since the bathroom. Was this… it wasn't going to be a common occurrence, was it? It could explain why Bobby had such trouble holding down a girlfriend, Jean Paul supposed. He tried to put the thoughts out of his mind.

Bobby had managed to keep his mind on what he was doing and Warren had come with a thrust that had made Bobby slip backwards on the wet tile. The older boy had stood over him, bent forwards and panting hard. Bobby had stared up at him, licking his lips.

"Bobby?" Jean Paul murmured.

"Warren," Bobby moaned.

"Warren?"

"I don't want you to mention this to anyone," Warren had said, straightening up and breathing heavily. "Not even to me. Especially not to me. I…pretend it never happened, okay?"

"Okay," Bobby had sighed, head drooping.

"Warren?" Jean Paul spat, jumping backwards and dropping Bobby to collapse in a heap on the ground.

Bobby stared at him. "What? No!"

"Warren?" Jean Paul repeated, stepping forwards again, face dangerous.

Bobby brought his knees up, buried his head in his hands, and began to cry.

"Bobby," Jean Paul snarled.

"Go away," Bobby sniffed. "Fly away home."

A figure stepped out of the shadows. "Who are you talking to?" Warren said. "Which one of us?"

The pain and fury that had built up in Jean Paul in those few short seconds released in one blinding blur of a fist. Warren sailed back, knocking his head on a tree and slumping to the ground. Jean Paul stood there, enjoying the sensation, but Bobby half crawled and half ran across to his friend. As he checked him over Warren opened his eyes and stared at him.

"I was worried about you," Warren growled. "I was _worried_, Bobby." He sat up carefully.

"Worried enough to come and spy on us?" Jean Paul stood over him. "That worried?"

Warren ignored him. "I asked you-"

"You _told_ me," Bobby reminded him bitterly. "War…"

"Did you tell him, yet?" Warren asked him. "Did you tell him about us jerking each other off in that shower? I bet you told him in graphic detail."

"I didn't say a word," Bobby told him.

"What?" Jean Paul said weakly. "You…"

"Forget it," Bobby turned and snapped. "Go away."

"No."

Bobby decided to ignore him. "Warren, you said never to mention it and I didn't. Not even to you."

"I want to know what happened," Jean Paul demanded.

"What are you doing with this guy?" Warren asked.

"Well, earlier we were having a lot of fun and I was getting some stuff sorted out," Bobby said crisply, "and then I almost got us both killed and now I'm beginning to think that might have been a better end to the evening. Certainly would have capped this miserable day off quite nicely."

"You don't have stuff to sort out," Warren insisted. "You'd be better off ignoring him. You'll feel better for it," he added. "Come on, Bobby, you can't convince me you've changed after all these years. You've been happy with girls. Why are you hurting yourself here?"

"I don't know," Bobby said. "I was happy earlier. I think I am going to be happy with Jean Paul. And… if it doesn't work out, you can say 'I told you so' and I can stick it my ever increasing list of failed relationships. And if it does, then I'll be happy and you…" he trailed off.

"I'll have to be happy for you?" Warren frowned at him. "I can't do that."

"I know," Bobby said in a very small voice.

"I'm going home," Warren said, struggling away from the tree and checking his wings. "Next time, Bobby, don't expect me to come after you when you disappear all fucking night."

Bobby watched the silhouette of his best friend fade into the clouds overhead and realised, with a sinking feeling, that it was going to rain.

"Bobby?" Jean Paul offered him a hand up.

"I can't tell you what happened between us, not unless he says it's okay," Bobby told him.

"He was… pretty clear, on what happened," Jean Paul pointed out with a slight smile.

"True," Bobby smiled weakly.

"Come on," Jean Paul handed him his helmet. "Let's get back, yes?"

"You're not yelling again," Bobby pointed out.

"I do not see why I should be angry with you. Hearing his name at that moment was not the best timing on your behalf, but understandable now I know he was here."

Bobby decided not to mention that he hadn't seen Warren until Jean Paul had, when he'd joined the conversation. Telling someone that he'd been thinking about someone else while they were making out, even if he hadn't intended to, wasn't a winner in any relationship. He knew Jean Paul wanted this to work out, even if he wasn't sure why the older man had invested so much emotionally in a relationship barely hours old, and he wasn't going to force him to put up with more than he had to.

"I understand why you are keeping this secret," Jean Paul went on, though his voice was strained, "since you do not want to sever your friendship with Warren."

"It's hard to understand from the outside," Bobby told him. "It will work out, though. And I'm not going to lock you two in a room or anything until you get along, like in those cheesy movies."

"It would be more like the Thunderdome," Jean Paul commented wryly.

Bobby leant over and kissed Jean Paul gently. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "Today has been extremely intense, emotionally, for me. I didn't sleep much last night, and first there was Hank's news, then the fight with Warren, and then us, at the coffee shop, and then you yelled and I got confused and everything kind of caved in on me," Bobby finished breathlessly. "I really just need to get home and go to sleep."

Jean Paul held Bobby tightly. He'd never thought it through this far. His fantasies involved Bobby falling for him and great sex and, well, that was it. There was never any subplot involving homophobic friends or repressed Bobby or emotional roller coasters for anyone. He wanted this to work, but he hadn't thought about his work he'd have to put in to make that happen. If it all got too much Bobby would call it quits and go back to how things were, and Jean Paul couldn't bear that. He didn't know how to help, yet, but he knew he was going to have to take some of this weight off of Bobby's shoulders.

"I _will_ make you happy, Bobby," he breathed in Bobby's ear. "This relationship _will_ work out. We will be happy and Warren will just have to learn to live with that."

"Thanks," Bobby hugged him. "I'm sure you're right, and it'll all work out." he kissed Jean Paul again and pulled away, putting his helmet on. Jean Paul did the same with more reluctance. Bobby winked at him as he climbed onto the bike, and Jean Paul shivered.

"Warren?"

"Yes, Bobby?"

"We're still… this won't change our friendship, right?"

"Not if you don't let it. I don't intend to. Get off the floor and hurry up and get dressed. We'll be late for dinner."

"Coming."

Bobby had climbed slowly to his feet, watching Angel walk away. He never had managed to forget, though he'd done a good job of pretending, for Warren's sake.


	13. part thirteen

Part Thirteen

_A/N: As you may have gathered, I'm back from holiday! It was good, not that you care. Only managed to get one chapter written (a problem with it being a good holiday, you see). Updates are going to slow dramatically from now on. There's this whole exam results, university choosing, driving test thing going on. But even if it reaches a point where I'm updating once every three months, remember it's not dead. I don't abandon fics. Trust me, if I've put this much work in to get this far, there's no way I'm letting that work go to waste._

_(editted because I forgot to sort out the line breaks. Why FFN can't take stars any more is beyond me)_

There were not a lot of people Bobby felt comfortable talking to about his love life right now. Despite his assurances to Jean Paul as they kissed goodnight at the top of the stairs, he hadn't slept well. He'd barely slept at all.

Things were… fast. But then, he'd wanted them to be, hadn't he? He liked Jean Paul a lot. He wanted it to work out, and the more he thought about it the more he was convinced he didn't have a lot of time to spend with the guy. He'd escaped death a few too many times. The ice was growing. Things were… things were insane, and if he died he wouldn't have to deal with that, and everyone would be sorry.

When Bobby thought about it like that he began to worry about himself. He really had to find someone to talk to. Hank seemed the obvious choice, but he didn't want to upset his friend with his new found fatalism. He could talk to Annie, but she might tell Jean Paul. Part of him wanted to talk to Jean Paul about it all. He was easy to talk to, understanding without compromising his own views, generally experienced and someone who cared. But Bobby had closed that door the moment he'd decided to seduce him. How could he go to Jean Paul with doubts about their own relationship?

He offered his class a weak smile as he entered. "Hey, guys."

A variety of 'Hi, Bobby's and 'hey, professor's rang out, though in a class of five it was pretty easy to pick up which came from who. He shook his head at them and let himself fall into his seat.

"Look, I'm not feeling great today," he told them. "Real tired."

"Video lesson?" one of the boys grinned.

"Bingo," Bobby grinned. He grabbed a random cassette from the desk drawer and shoved it into the machine. One of the kids dimmed the lights without moving from her seat, and Bobby settled back in his seat to try and catch a few belated winks.

Each day, he told himself, he would do something he'd been putting off. He might be stressed in the short term, but eventually his life ought to be trouble free, for the most part. He'd feel better then, right? So today… today he'd get his hair cut. Best to start small. He'd visit his parents some other time.

Bobby dozed in fits and starts throughout the lesson. His impression of the video he'd picked was that it was insanely boring, and the narrator was just saying the same sentence over and over again, changing the emphasis each time. Later, he learnt one of the students had looped the tape to see if anyone noticed. He'd been amused.

Bobby stayed in his chair long after the students were dismissed, messing about with paperwork and enjoying the solitude. He kept his mind on the marking or, when it wandered despite his best efforts, on the mundane. While he was in town, getting his hair sorted out, he'd go and buy some sleeping pills. And then he'd go and see Jubilee. He might tell her some of what was going on, but none of the death stuff. Didn't want to bum her out too much, especially after everything that had happened to her. Hey, multitask, take Jubilee into town with him!

He grinned at the C he'd just given some hapless student. A nice, stress-free day ahead of him. No fights, no sex, no news. If he really needed some excitement, he'd get highlights.

"Bobby?"

Or Jean Paul would find him first and his day would be shot to hell.

"Hi," Bobby forced a smile.

"What are you doing in here?" Jean Paul entered.

"Marking," Bobby waved at the desk.

"Oh," Jean Paul said, nonplussed.

"Why are you here?" Bobby asked as lightly as he could.

"Because you are," Jean Paul said cautiously.

"I'm flattered," Bobby said as warmly as he could.

Jean Paul still looked a little confused. "I was expecting to see you earlier," he said eventually, leaning on the desk.

"Why?" Bobby frowned.

Jean Paul couldn't answer that. 'Because I thought you would want to see me' suddenly sounded meaningless.

"Not that it's not great to see you," Bobby said, "but I was about to go out with Jubilee."

"She left with Paige a few hours ago," Jean Paul said. Suspicion was beginning to blossom in his mind. He'd almost suspected something like this.

"…oh." Bobby grimaced. "Well, I still have to go into town anyway."

"I will come with you," Jean Paul persevered.

"I was just going to get my hair cut," Bobby protested. "I've been putting it off for a while. You'd be bored."

"We could get coffee," Jean Paul pointed out.

Bobby stared down at the desk. "I'm still having trouble sleeping," he said. "I don't think coffee is quite what I need."

"You said you would be fine," Jean Paul reminded him sharply. "Bobby, I am worrying about you."

"I'm worrying about me too," Bobby laughed harshly. "I think I just need a few quiet days."

"Bobby, there are subtler ways to avoid me," Jean Paul finally snapped.

Bobby rocked back on his chair. "I'm not avoiding you," he lied. "I like being around you, and you know that."

"I won't allow you to pretend nothing happened between us," Jean Paul warned him.

Bobby's head snapped up. "Pretend nothing happened?" he echoed incredulously. He stood up and pressed his hands to the desk, one either side of a shocked Jean Paul. He kissed him passionately, nudging Jean Paul's legs apart with his body to stand between them. "Why would I want to do that?" he murmured against Jean Paul's lips. He raised his eyebrows suggestively, and glanced at the piles of paperwork on the desk. Jean Paul followed his eyes.

"Ici?" Jean Paul swallowed. "Here?"

Bobby didn't answer out loud. Instead he swept one arm across the desk, sending a blizzard of paper across the room. Jean Paul caught his breath, thrills running through him. He responded more readily when Bobby kissed him again, leaning back as Bobby leaned forwards until he was lying on the desk, eyes alight.

Bobby unbuttoned Jean Paul's shirt and traced kisses down his torso, climbing onto the desk and straddling the older man. After Bobby's nerves the previous night, Jean Paul was a little bemused by this ferocity. Bobby seemed to enjoy initiating these encounters, though Jean Paul was willing to bet he'd be willing to surrender control before they were done, lacking the experience to follow through.

He was right. After some very promising foreplay Bobby's enthusiasm abruptly waned. Jean Paul ground up against him, but Bobby's response was decidedly lacklustre. Bobby kissed him gently, apologetically. Jean Paul sat up carefully. Bobby sat in his lap, interest piqued again as Jean Paul's erection teased the seat of his trousers. Jean Paul kissed him, tongue teasing the top of Bobby's mouth. Bobby sucked his tongue hungrily.

They rocked together, Bobby's legs wrapped around Jean Paul's waist. Jean Paul's shirt was abandoned on the desk, Bobby's trousers were open. Jean Paul slipped his hand inside and groped and massaged until Bobby moaned loudly into his shoulder. But when Bobby had come and recovered, panting, he kissed Jean Paul only once and climbed down from the desk. It took Jean Paul a moment to work out what was happening, and Bobby was in the doorway before he called out his name in confusion.

"Oh, it's lunch time," Bobby said, and left.

Jean Paul sat on the desk, staring down at the neglected bulge in his trousers. Internally he was a writhing, fuming mass of seething rage. The strength of his own anger frightened him slightly. He tried and failed to control his ragged breathing and calm his pounding heart. The blood pressure was just increasing his erection, which upset him further because Bobby had just _walked off._

Jean Paul's negative emotions seemed to have intensified since joining the X-men. He suspected it had something to do with his sister, but he wasn't certain if it was her feelings he was picking up on or his feelings towards her fuelling everything else. Sometimes he wondered if she was the only one who needed a psychiatrist's help. It was one thing to bounce sarcasm around and snark at his colleagues, but when he got really angry he couldn't even bring himself to do that. Of course, to get him that angry the infuriating person had to be someone close to him. He wouldn't allow himself to get emotional over any old Joe.

Bobby was too close.

Jean Paul slid off the desk and locked the classroom door. He felt like a pervert. Apparently sex in a classroom was fine, but masturbating? He refused to think about Bobby. He called up faces from the past instead. It only made him even more resentful towards Bobby, but as he recovered from orgasm he felt the bad bleed away with the good, until he was numb.

Bobby was hurting and confused. Jean Paul was perfectly aware of this, and despite some wariness he did want to help. He'd gone through the same, once. He was quite certain it hadn't made him nearly as selfish as Bobby, but he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He passed Warren in the corridor as he made his way to his room. His foul mood darkened. When he reached his private space he had to fight the urge to pace. The floors of the mansion weren't built to withstand a speedster's pacing. He wanted to run. He couldn't run, not in here. He want to fly. He threw up the window so hard it shattered. Shards rained down his arms and he stared as blood began to trickle.

Jean Paul took a deep breath and walked back into the room. He carefully bandaged his arms. He went back and swept up the glass, then found an old newspaper to put over the empty panes. He wasn't going to let Bobby's thoughtlessness do this to him. Or Warren's resentment. They hadn't even fought.

Jean Paul climbed out the window and flew until he could see the curve of the earth. He was angry, he knew, because they were going to fight. He was angry at himself. He had let another relationship implode. It had to be some kind of record though, this fast. He was angry at Bobby, but he knew Bobby would apologise and learn and grow. It was just a matter of venting this anger first, so he didn't take it out on Bobby. If he took it out on him then Bobby would start to get upset in reaction and things would escalate.

Jean Paul screamed. It was empty and breathy, this high in the atmosphere. But he felt better. Once he explained a few relationship rules to Bobby, and demonstrated that he could be supportive, then things would be alright. Right?

He was ready to go down now. Not ready to talk to Bobby, yet, but he could vent at Annie for a little while. She might even be able to cast some light on Bobby's throw-away comment about Hank's news. Last night hadn't been the right time to question that, and now very definitely wasn't. In fact, it was another thing on a long list of things he wasn't going to confront Bobby about, no matter how much he wanted to. Also included in that list were Warren, the ice and coming out.

* * *

Bobby couldn't believe himself. Was he trying to make Jean Paul hate him? Did he want to be dumped _again_?

His first instinct was to run to Hank's lab. He could mope and rant and panic at his friend. Hank would put up with it, and maybe even give him some good advice. But first he'd have to tell Hank what he'd done with Jean Paul. The exact thing Hank had warned him against, and now, naturally, he was reaping the consequences. Hank would find some nice way of putting it, of course, but Bobby was convinced he would feel like he'd disappointed his friend. He would be_ a disappointment_.

Sometimes Bobby really hated his father. He had hardwired multiple rules into Bobby's head years ago. Being a disappointment was worse than being a murderer or even, god forbid, being a mutant. God only knew what he'd think of Bobby's newly explored sexual preferences.

He could no more go to Hank than he could to Warren. He didn't want to be alone, but he'd just deliberately pissed off the person he could most relate to. Life without Jean Paul would be so much simpler, so much smoother. He was so open and proud and self-confident and damned attractive. He terrified Bobby on so many levels. Life without Jean Paul would be so much lonelier. The absence of Jean Paul scared Bobby in ways he couldn't define.

Bobby had to choose which fear to face, but fear made Bobby react in funny ways.

* * *

"What do you mean I 'should ask Bobby'?" Jean Paul rounded on his friend. "Do you think I have no reason for asking you?"

"_Did_ you ask him?" Annie asked sceptically.

Jean Paul tried not to throw anything at her. "If I thought I would get a straight answer, I would," he snarled.

Annie held her ground. "Hardly a healthy beginning to a relationship, is it?" She placed her hands on her hips and cocked an eyebrow at Jean Paul.

Jean Paul grabbed a pillow and began tugging at it, as though he was trying to rip it apart. Annie's confidence was a mere shell now, but she felt that backing down would upset Jean Paul further. As long as he was butting his head against a brick wall he wasn't tearing free and going on a rampage.

"I know," he breathed heavily. "Is this what you think I want?"

"You have to go to him to deal with this. What do you want me to do, act as mediator?" Annie asked sharply.

"He is at a point where he needs help," Jean Paul ground out. "I want to help him, but he will not let me."

"If he wants to go to Hank about one thing, and you about another, that's his choice, isn't it?" Annie wrapped her arms around herself defensively as the pillow Jean Paul had been venting his frustrations on burst into a cloud of feathers. "You're cleaning that up, you know," she added.

"What did he go to Hank about? What news did he receive?" Jean Paul asked desperately.

"Ask him," Annie repeated firmly.

"You know. I know you know!" Jean Paul wailed.

Annie bit back a laugh at his unusual behaviour, amused by the melodramatics.

"Annie," he begged.

"This wasn't even what you came here about," she reminded him, handing over a dustpan and brush.

Jean Paul snorted at her, unimpressed. "I came here about Bobby," he told her haughtily.

"Do you think that whatever Hank might have said to Bobby, which may not even have involved Bobby directly, relates to his behaviour today?" Annie asked, trying to understand how they'd ended up on this tangent.

"Yes," Jean Paul said promptly. "It was something that had obviously upset him yesterday, though he did not see fit to mention it until the very end of the evening."

"Are you sure it upset him?" Annie asked, gesturing pointedly to the flurry of feathers still adorning the room. "I thought you said he'd had an emotional roller coaster of a day, or something. Considering his fight with Warren, fight_s_ rather, doesn't that suggest good news?"

Jean Paul blurred and Annie couldn't help but laugh as the feathers he was trying to sweep up escaped into the air again. She watched him chase them for a few minutes, content to let him evade her question, and smiled sympathetically when he finally admitted defeat.

"You can't do everything fast," she told him, finding another dust pan and brush for herself. "It only makes the task harder."

"More haste less speed, I know," Jean Paul snapped, too used to the cliché.

"Do you think perhaps the powers that be are trying to tell you something?" Annie teased nevertheless.

"Are you going to help or just stand there?" Jean Paul asked grumpily. As hard as he tried to cling to the bad mood it slipped from his grasp, and as Annie flicked feathers at him he couldn't fight the smile. Of course she had a point. He'd been giving himself the same advice not much earlier.

Jean Paul sped around the room several times, surrounding Annie in a swirling melee of feathers while she berated him and laughed helplessly.

* * *

They met at dinner. Bobby sat opposite Jean Paul, empty tray in his hands. His hair was shorter now, evidence of the haircut he'd mentioned. He opened and closed his mouth a few times. Just as Jean Paul was about to speak for him, the words finally came out.

"I'm such a screw up," Bobby said wretchedly.

"Yes," Jean Paul agreed, "but I'm working on that." He grinned, and Bobby smiled nervously. "No matter what, you are still _my_ screw up."


	14. part fourteen

Part Fourteen

As the weeks progressed Bobby's behaviour grew no less confusing. A few times Jean Paul did let loose on him, shouting until his throat was sore. If there was anyone left in the mansion who wasn't aware they were a couple they had to be deaf. Probably because they'd crossed Jean Paul's path on one of the days when he hadn't fought with Bobby and suffered his misdirected rage.

Despite the rocky road they were treading, Jean Paul found himself far more content than he would have expected. Bobby could take the shouting without ever letting it progress into a real fight. More often then not he'd back down, apologise, and make some soft joke to lighten Jean Paul's mood. In fact, Jean Paul had never had to yell at him about the same thing twice.

He grimaced at the blackboard and he scratched chalk across it. It was true that he'd never raised the same point more than once, but every problem stemmed from a single cause: Bobby's erratic behaviour. He was running hot and cold like the showers first thing in the morning when there wasn't enough hot water for everyone. He would spend most mornings avoiding Jean Paul, and most afternoons wrapped around him. He hadn't spent a night yet, and Jean Paul wondered idly what the morning after would be like. How would Bobby cope with being utterly unable to avoid the reality of their relationship?

Jean Paul smiled at the last word he'd written. He'd missed that word, 'relationship', and it sounded even better when not accompanied by some word suggesting an absence of. Though it did look a bit odd in the middle of a sentence about security policies.

Merde.

* * *

Bobby stubbed his foot against a computer and scowled. He liked spending so much time with Hank, but he'd rather do it in pretty much any other room.

Actually, right now he didn't particularly like spending so much time with Hank. Too many negative connotations. Every time he saw Hank now he thought about death. Or being ice, permanently, which he considered to be a rather similar thing. People were commenting about how much time he was spending iced-up. Then he'd panic and nip into a closet or empty classroom and de-ice, just to make sure he could. It was like permanent heartburn.

He was iced now. As much as he hated it, he made the effort for Hank. Hank was permanently different. He'd said he'd rather not be but… Bobby didn't want to think about that. He needed Hank to be happy with himself, because otherwise there was no hope. It wasn't something they talked about, but they both thought about it a lot.

While Hank held up a test tube and squinted at it, Bobby decided to take a chance.

"Do you still think you're devolving?" he asked abruptly.

The silence was long.

"You do, don't you?" Bobby sighed. "I remember something Jean said about it. But I was kinda thinking about it, you know?"

"And what did you conclude?" Hank asked, voice strained.

"You're blue, Kurt's blue and for quite a while Warren was blue," Bobby said slowly.

A brief smile crossed Hank's face. "So you conclude the future of humanity is to be blue, with optional fur?"

"Well, yeah."

"It's a matter of natural selection, Bobby. In a million years or so, there may only be one form of mutant left. Nature is experimenting until it finds something that fits. Maybe everyone will be ice, or speedsters, or telepathic."

"Okay, I'm going to run some high school science by you. Correct me if I'm wrong anywhere."

"Certainly, my friend."

"So, the colour of something comes from the light it reflects, yeah?" Bobby puzzled through. "Like white stuff reflects all colours in the spectrum, and black absorbs it all, and blue absorbs the red end and reflects the blue end."

"Indeed." Hank had paused in his work and to Bobby's delight looked actually interested.

"UVA and UVB that cause tans and skin cancer and stuff are just past the blue end, right? And the hole in the ozone layer lets through way more of those frequencies."

"Correct…"

"So maybe humanity is evolving to be more resistant to them."

"By being blue," Hank finished for him.

"Have you tested to see if you reflect ultraviolet?"

"No," Hank admitted. "That's a very interesting idea, Bobby. Very interesting."

"Just leaving my legacy to science," Bobby shrugged, grinning despite himself. "That whole devolution thing is so much nonsense."

"Devolution?" Hank chuckled.

"Yeah. Evolving, evolution, devolving, devolution."

"Not… quite," Hank smiled at him.

"Made up the word?" Bobby laughed.

"No, it's a real word," Hank told him. "It just mean decentralization."

"Which means…" Bobby prompted.

"Never mind," Hank shook his head. "But thank you, Bobby."

"You talked to Kurt recently?" Bobby asked.

"Not specifically. Nothing you would call a conversation, I suppose. You?"

"No," Bobby shrugged awkwardly. "I was kinda a bastard to him a while back, accidentally, and I've been a bit iffy about approaching him since. Especially after… all that. How do you think he's coping?"

"How would you be?" Hank said seriously.

Bobby grimaced. "It's not just him. Everyone's got problems now. There's nothing I can do to cheer people up."

"You do more than that around here," Hank reminded him gently. "Don't fool yourself into thinking you are only comic relief."

"It's just as well, since I've really lost my edge recently," Bobby smiled grimly. "I'm avoiding everyone except you and Jean Paul, and hell, I'm avoiding him half the time as well."

"I noticed."

"I don't like that tone. You've gone all ominous."

"Have you told him what's going on?"

"How can I?"

"You can't keep it a secret forever. I can't."

Bobby slumped against the wall. "What can I do? I don't want to go around begging pity. Shit, Hank," he sighed. Bobby rarely swore, and Hank worried. "Just… shit. It's like our world's imploding. Life was so much easier when it was five of us against the world. Now it's half the world against the other half and we're expect to be figureheads for one side and lead everyone into the melee when we can't lead them out again alive. Most of the kids here aren't going to grow up to be X-men. They can't. We'd have an army, and then we'd have war."

Bobby didn't say any more as he stood himself up and left the lab, de-icing as he walked and leaving a trail of melt water. Hank was silent as well.

* * *

Jean Paul was preparing to drag Bobby out for a night. Since Bobby's secondary mutation had grown more fierce he'd been less willing to go out. He insisted that there was no point having coffee or food if he was iced up, and he was too uncomfortable de-iced. And apparently he Didn't Dance. So after a great deal of wheedling, begging, shouting and bargaining, Bobby had agreed to go to the theatre.

Annie had joined Jean Paul in his room while he was fussing with his tie. It wasn't the kind of theatre you _needed_ to be dressed up for, but Jean Paul took a certain pleasure in it. It was something at one time he'd never thought he'd have the opportunity to do. At the time, he'd felt certain it was something he'd never want to do. He was passed that now, unwilling to deny himself what he wanted by clinging to principles that kept him close-minded.

"I wouldn't have thought Bobby was a theatre person," Annie commented.

"He will not go out to eat, he will not go out to dance, he will not go out to the cinema…" Jean Paul shook his head.

"Why not the cinema?" Annie asked.

"He is worried that in his ice form the light will pass through his head and distract everyone with rainbows," Jean Paul said wryly.

Annie laughed. "Oh, I'd love to see that. You should talking him into going to a club or something, in his ice form. He'd be beautiful. I wish I could see that."

"He is my boyfriend, and you are not seeing him naked, partially or otherwise, under any light," Jean Paul said firmly. "Help me with this, will you?" he gestured to the tie. "I can not seem to get it straight."

"You're so happy these days," Annie smiled at him. "You're practically a different person when things are going well."

"Yes, when," Jean Paul said dryly. "Sometimes he is - How would Bobby put it? - Sometimes Bobby can be a complete dick."

"You are what you eat," Annie joked. Finishing fussing with Jean Paul's tie she glanced up and froze. _Note to self_, she panicked, _do not befriend people who terrify you and then piss them off._

A knock on the door interrupted the hideous silence. Before the door opened, Jean Paul stepped away from Annie and flashed her a cool smile.

"Funny," he said, in a voice without emotion.

"Sorry," she murmured. "I didn't mean to offend you."

His smile was a little warmer as he said, "I should not be offended. I would make such a joke in a similar situation."

"But you're gay, so you can," Annie sighed.

"But it shouldn't be so."

"Uh, hey," Bobby interrupted from the doorway. He was dressed smartly, but not as formally as Jean Paul. He looked on the verge of panic. Annie smiled at him.

"Don't worry, Jean Paul just likes dressing up," she reassured him. "You too have a great time, okay?"

As Annie left Jean Paul approached Bobby and gave him a light kiss on his frozen cheek. Bobby couldn't summon a smile.

"Look, Jean Paul…" Bobby sighed.

"You are not backing out on me again," Jean Paul said more sharply than he intended.

"No, I'm not," a lacklustre Bobby agreed. "I just want to warn you I'm in the kinda mood where, well, let's say if someone came up to me and told me they'd destroy the world unless I personally told them not to, I'd probably shrug and wander off."

Jean Paul swallowed, opening his mouth to talk without being certain what he was going to say. Before he could speak, though, Bobby interrupted him.

"We're going out, okay? I don't want to not go and then fight with you tomorrow because you feel I guilt tripped you into staying here."

Jean Paul kissed him gently on the lips, not caring that when he pulled away he lost a little skin from them. Bobby tilted his head up and leant in for a second kiss, de-icing as he did so. It was cool and very wet and Bobby gasped with pain into Jean Paul's mouth as he changed, but Jean Paul could feel the beat of love in his pulse and held his younger lover tightly.

"I do not want to fight with you either," Jean Paul embraced him. "What has put you in this mood? You were so cheerful this morning."

Bobby tucked his head under Jean Paul's chin and tried to pretend he wasn't on the verge of tears. "Maybe, after the play, we can go and get coffee," he said quietly.

"I thought you did not want to drink," Jean Paul said in confusion. "But, no, if you want to, we can do that," he added hastily.

"No, you're right," Bobby sighed. "Besides, it'll be real late." He kissed Jean Paul again and offered him a weak smile. "I'm lucky I've got you."

A lump formed in Jean Paul's throat. He tried to reply but found he couldn't force words passed it.

"Speaking of late," Bobby went on, apparently oblivious, "we ought to be going."

"Oui," Jean Paul spluttered. He grabbed Bobby's warm, human hand and squeezed it. For the first time Bobby didn't try to break away when they passed other people on their way out of the mansion.

Later, sitting in a box at the side of the theatre, Bobby slipped off his shoes and curled his legs under him, dragging Jean Paul's already drifting attention from the play and making him smile. Bobby was paying no more attention than he was, but unlike Jean Paul there was no warm smile touching his face.

Jean Paul put an arm around Bobby and let him rest his head on his shoulder. He pressed his nose into Bobby's hair for a second, breathing deeply and closing his eyes. He could tell from the short, shallow breaths that it was hurting Bobby to stay human, but he couldn't bring himself to suggest Bobby ice up. He wasn't sure how he would cope when Bobby was permanently ice. He'd already been thinking of ways around it. He had yet to visit the website Annie had suggested. The fact she hadn't been able to tell him the address for giggling had made him suspicious. That and it was called 'unusual dildoes dot com'.

"If you want to leave…" he murmured to Bobby.

"No, I'm fine," Bobby nuzzled closer. "Thank you." He tilted his head up and they shared a brief kiss. "You okay?"

"I am perfect," Jean Paul said warmly, squeezing Bobby to him. "I love you."

Bobby was absolutely silent, suddenly engrossed in the play. Jean Paul didn't notice, too involved in his own emotion. It never occurred to him that the feeling but not be truly mutual.


	15. part fifteen

**Part Fifteen**

_A/N: It's been a while since I've added a note, so bear with me on this rambly one. That thing in the first note, about the equal balance of angst and fluff? Ye-ah. Getting very angsty here. For at least another two chapters, probably more. But it'll lighten up again eventually. _

_I keep reacting to reviews within the fic, and I'm divided on whether this is a good or a bad thing. On the one hand, I shouldn't let what people think stop me from writing what I've planned, but on the other people are raising points that do need addressing, and provide some nice inspiration to pad out the bullet-pointed plot I've got. So if there is something in this fic you find surprising or unlikely, let me know. I might already have an explanation planned, it might be something I overlooked entirely. I am always grateful for any feedback I get. Especially that which points out really embarrassing typos in concluding sentences. Can't believed I missed that on the last chapter; I'll have to fix it soon._

_Anyway, on with the show!_

Jean Paul had wandered up to the infirmary to talk to Annie. While he might bring up the previous night with Bobby and how smoothly it had gone, he was in no way going up there to gossip and squeal like teenaged girls. However, Annie was in one of the private 'rooms' when he arrived, talking to someone. He could see the always recognisable silhouette of Hank, but the other shadow could have belonged to any young man in the institute.

"I can't cure this, just like that," Hank was saying. Jean Paul grimaced at his own eavesdropping, but he wasn't willing to leave again. He tried to shut out the voices and leant against the window, watching his students outside.

"We can hold it off, I'm sure," Annie was speaking now. "The ice is doing that, as well as it can, but with some good antibiotics we ought to be able to boost your natural defences."

"I'm not sure." Hank's voice was laden with pessimism. "That's depending on it being some kind of disease. I'm not yet unconvinced that this isn't a poisoning attempt."

"You mean someone's actively trying to kill me?"

Jean Paul burst through the curtain and had Bobby up against the wall feet dangling, before Annie or Hank saw the curtain move. He was screaming in French, something incoherent and panicked. He wasn't sure it had even sunk in yet, but the idea of losing Bobby like he'd lost so many other people terrified him. He was hot and cold and his heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest and he was just so damn angry because no one had even told him and they knew he loved Bobby and Bobby was going to die and what if there was nothing he could do and-

Jean Paul found himself dangling from a huge furry paw, and Hank turned him to face that blue muzzle. He couldn't hear what Hank was saying, but the sheer indignity of the situation helped clear his head. He knew Hank was speaking loudly, slowly, clearly, but all he could hear was the quiet mumbled sobs of 'I'm sorry I'm so sorry I was going to tell you I'm sorry I didn't know how I'm sorry so sorry Jean Paul forgive me I meant to tell you I'm sorry.'

The migraine was not unexpected. Hank put him down and he stumbled. Bobby wrapped his arms around him from behind and buried a wet face into his back, still engrossed in his unintelligible monologue. Jean Paul couldn't move. He just closed his eyes and tried to remember what the world had been like five minutes ago.

When he opened them again Annie and Hank had disappeared. Bobby's head was still nestled between his shoulder blades, though he'd quietened now.

"I need to sit down," Jean Paul managed. He could barely think through the pounding headache, and the glut of emotion left him feeling nauseous. His legs felt weak and he wondered if Bobby knew how much he was contributing to keeping Jean Paul standing.

Bobby let him go and mutely pushed a chair towards him, but Jean Paul shoved past him to collapse on a bed. He thought Bobby might bolt, but instead the younger man sat down on the chair he'd proffered to Jean Paul.

"If you tell me you are sorry one more time I shall punch you so fast you will not know you were hit until you try to eat and your jaw comes loose," Jean Paul said in a low growl.

Bobby looked like he was about to burst into tears. From the hot, tight feeling in his throat, Jean Paul guessed he might do the same. He swallowed it back, swallowed it down, and wondered dully if there was any chance left to salvage his pride. Maybe he should give in now and haul Bobby into his arms, holding him tight until the world ended. God, the idea of letting him go. God. He swallowed again.

"I…" Bobby spread his hands helplessly.

"I don't want to talk," Jean Paul said sharply. "I can't."

"Yeah," Bobby said quietly. A wry smile almost flickered across his face. "That was my problem too."

After several deep breath, deep breaths that lasted several minutes, Jean Paul falsely convinced himself he was in control again. He needed to know, he couldn't sit and panic and not know first. I probably wasn't as bad as he imagined, though few things could be.

"Are you… you are… I…" His confidence collapsed again and he gave up. He leant forwards and put his head in his hands, breathing deeply. He wasn't going to cry, he wasn't going to hyperventilate, he wasn't going to be sick. His shoulders twitched and shook.

"Everyone dies," Bobby said after a few moments. "It's only a matter of when. In this business, it's invariably soon."

Jean Paul refused to let himself answer.

"Between Hank and Annie, I'm sure I'll be fine. I'm fighting it myself, you know. The ice keeps it contained."

"And when you are fully ice?" Jean Paul snapped suddenly. "How does that contain it?"

"I suppose it doesn't, but it certainly stops me from having a heart attack or something," Bobby replied coolly. "I trust Hank. I trust Annie."

Jean Paul was silent again, and after a moment's deliberation Bobby moved to sit next to him on the bed. He reached out to put his hand on Jean Paul's shoulder, and though he did hesitate for a moment, hand hovering in mid air, he finished the gesture. Jean Paul was trembling beneath his hand, so fast it felt like the vibration of his motorbike. Bobby squeezed his shoulder and felt Jean Paul stiffen. It was better than the shaking.

"I hurt more now than I ever have before," Bobby said in strangled tones, "and it's nothing to do with the ice or whatever it's holding back."

"That is just another way of saying you are sorry," Jean Paul accused him, but the malice was seeping away.

"Be strong for me," Bobby breathed. "Please, Jean Paul. Don't be angry or scared or guilty or anything, just be strong."

Jean Paul raised his head slowly and straightened up, forcing himself to look at Bobby. A tendril of ice was curling under his bobbing adam's apple, a tendril he suspected Bobby hadn't noticed yet. His eyes sparkled with frost, not tears. And he still had his hand on Jean Paul's shoulder, a comforting hand. He was asking Jean Paul for comfort and giving it to him.

Jean Paul wrapped his arms around Bobby's slender form and tried not to hold him so hard it hurt. It was a battle.

Emma Frost covered for Jean Paul, while Bobby's students were just given free time. Several rumours circulated as to the both of them calling sick days at the same time. Some of them touched on the truth, but not the depth of it. Curled together in Jean Paul's bed, neither speaking a single word, both unwilling to let themselves cry for the other's sake. Bobby stayed in his ice form, cold and hard, but Jean Paul still embraced him.

* * *

The next day, still bearing the brunt of a migraine and terrified to let Bobby out of his sight, Jean Paul took Bobby by the hand and led him down to Hank's lab, so he could find out what was going on without putting Bobby through the stress of talking about it. It was easier to hear it from any lips but those cold ones. Somewhere on the way down Bobby's hand slipped from his and it was with an apologetic smile that Bobby slipped away up the corridor, leaving Jean Paul wanting to call him back, or to at least make him promise not to die while he wasn't there.

"We're still talking in terms of mo- weeks," Hank told Jean Paul, trying to sound reassuring. The only comfort Jean Paul could derive from his words was that he was just as upset by Bobby's inevitable demise as Jean Paul was.

"It is Black Tom Cassidy's fault, is it not?" Jean Paul growled.

"Evidence seems to suggest such, but it is so unlike his preferred methods," Hank grimaced. "We haven't even established if it is poison or a disease that entered while he was wounded."

"Why not?" Jean Paul snapped, on his feet.

"Because all we get is ice," Hank said, his frustration evident. "Even blood samples turn to ice. It's significant, but we can't work out why, yet."

"And in the ice, there is nothing? No disease, no poison?" Jean Paul was almost frantic.

"There are traces of several different elements. Nothing you wouldn't expect to find in the human body, but having never checked the exact composition of Bobby's ice-form before, I don't know whether they're to be expected or not."

"I… I would have assumed that he was pure water, in his ice form," Jean Paul offered.

"Precisely, but water is very rarely pure. There is nothing in the samples I took that isn't out of proportion that you would expect in other bodily fluids."

"So he is actually frozen saliva man?" Jean Paul cocked an eyebrow.

Hank chuckled, and Jean Paul was only briefly offended. Then he allowed a small smile to touch his face despite the sense of guilt. How could he be amused - hell, how could he be making jokes at Bobby's expense - when Bobby was dying? But it made it all a little less surreal, and he was grateful for that.

"I have taken a few samples when he is iced completely, which I am still processing. I also intend to take any other samples I can, such as hair and skin. If they all turn to ice, then I'll start with some more DNA analysis."

"More?" Jean Paul asked, confused.

"Obviously it was the first test I ran, to confirm that it truly was a secondary mutation. His X-gene hasn't shown the usual changes that others, such as those of myself and Warren, have. However, there may be other changes I didn't look for." Hank scratched his left ear absently. "I will be frank with you, Northstar. I suspect I will find abnormalities in Bobby's DNA, and I do not suspect that they are the type that can be reversed. This could be a result of the slow disintegration of his DNA, where perhaps the X-gene is the most resistant while other genes, such as those responsible for the reproduction of skin, hair, even organ cells, are failing. The ice is taking over and keeping him alive."

Jean Paul collapsed back into his seat with a thud. Hank rested a large paw on his shoulder and let the news sink in.

"You… suspect," Jean Paul murmured.

"But I do not know. I will run more tests, and hopefully be proved wrong," Hank said fervently.

"If he turns all to ice… will he survive?"

"I don't know. It may be he needs to return periodically to a human form to retain brain function, it may be the ice acts as an alternative energy matrix. His X-gene may also disintegrate, if that is what's happening, and we will be left with nothing but a puddle. Until it occurs, there is no way of knowing. It was much simpler when the ice was simply a coating," Hank added wistfully. "We used to understand ourselves, once upon a time."

* * *

Bobby couldn't find a good way to phrase the question, but now, with Jean Paul curled around him in his bed, in his room, he knew he had to ask anyway. If Jean Paul got upset and left, maybe that was for the best. Bobby had had his time. He'd got what he wanted, his relationship, his comfort, and now it was time to break it off so Jean Paul wouldn't be too hurt when he died.

He really didn't want to do that. Dying men were allowed to be selfish, weren't they?

"Jean Paul?" Bobby murmured, rolling over to face his lover. He felt a little resentful that Jean Paul was even there. It was Bobby's room, for Bobby himself. If he'd wanted to spend the night with Jean Paul, he'd have gone to Jean Paul's room. He needed space, sometimes. Running away from Jean Paul earlier had only earned him a half hour's solitude in the kitchen.

"Mmhm?" Jean Paul hadn't been sleeping, but he had been trying to doze. The weight in his chest and the churning in his stomach made it hard. While usually not a cuddly sleeper, he'd found himself reaching out every few seconds to confirm Bobby was still there, until he found himself spooning the younger man protectively. Used to lying alone, he found it even harder to sleep, but at least he wasn't fighting to stay still.

"You told me you loved me last night," Bobby said hesitantly.

"Oui," Jean Paul sighed.

"You…" Bobby swallowed and rolled onto his back now, obviously avoiding Jean Paul's eyes. Staring at the ceiling, he continued, "You don't really strike me as the type, you know?"

"The type?"

"To say 'I love you'. Well, not unless you or I were at death's door." Bobby felt Jean Paul stiffen beside him, but he had greater worries. "I'm not complaining, or anything," Bobby grimaced at his own words, "but you just kinda caught me by surprise."

"I am not, as you say, 'the type'," Jean Paul said slowly. "I am not comfortable with expressing such things unless I am confident I am not alone. Even then…"

"That was it," Bobby said. "I wondered what… well, what I had done to deserve it. Does that make sense?"

Jean Paul smiled at him, tugging Bobby so they were lying face to face again. Any nerves relating to potentially imminent rejection slipped away.

"Ah, Bobby. I have loved you for a long time, not the mere weeks we have been together." He nuzzled Bobby's neck. "I even told you such, that first night, though in French. I do not love quickly, but I do with great strength."

Deciphering the sleep and emotion muddled English, Bobby smiled weakly at the sentiment.

"Why do you love me?" Bobby asked, vaguely aware that he sounded like a teenage girl. "No one else has ever managed it for long," he added by way of explanation.

Jean Paul was silent for so long Bobby cherished the sweet hope that he might have fallen asleep. Then he met Bobby's eyes, and Bobby could see something there he wasn't sure he liked. It was dark and serious and spoke of a level of commitment that would have terrified Bobby at this stage in any other situation. He wondered if Jean Paul regretted those three little words now, knowing Bobby wouldn't be around for long, or whether the brevity of their relationship was simply going to increase the intensity of it.

"I found you attractive, for the first one," Jean Paul said in a low, quiet voice, accent thicker that Bobby had ever heard it. "Soon I did see you were angry an' 'urting. My 'eart went out to you."

"I was a bastard. I _am_ a bastard," Bobby said bitterly. "I was trying to hurt you, and everyone else. I still try to."

"So I am," Jean Paul insisted. "I knew de reasons for your being a bastard, as I know myself. I learned de reason for your 'urt and I felt more strongly for you. Also I knew you could be fun an' you made me laugh. An', and… I love you," Jean Paul finished helplessly.

"Because we're a lot alike," Bobby murmured. "Do you really think so?"

"I love you because you are you," Jean Paul said firmly, accent slipping away again. "Never doubt that." 

"I know," Bobby said, a trace of irritation in his voice. "I don't doubt you, Jean Paul. You've been so sincere and earnest and serious and in love with me…" he trailed off, the anger in his voice frightening him.

"You would rather I was not?" Jean Paul said coolly, propping himself up on one elbow to lean over Bobby.

"That's not what I mean," Bobby groaned. "Look, it's late, I'm tired, and we both need to get some sleep. I don't want to skip work again."

"Skip work? I think you should stop teaching altogether," Jean Paul said firmly.

"Why?" Bobby challenged.

"Are you in denial?" Jean Paul demanded. "You are dying, Bobby. Do you want to speed it up?"

Bobby paled, and then iced up. He closed his eyes until he felt the bed shudder as Jean Paul let himself fall back on to it.

"I know I'm dying," Bobby said, surprising both of them after the silence. "I want to put as few people through this stress as possible. I didn't tell you because I knew it would hurt you, like it is. I just… I want to live as long as possible, obviously, but even more I want to actually _live_ during that time, you understand? I don't want to sit in this room with the windows closed and the door shut and no one visiting in case I get upset or stressed or anything. I just want to keep doing what I am doing."

"Do not think about my 'urt," Jean Paul said throatily. "I just wish to be 'ere for you."

"But you _are_ hurting!" Bobby wailed. "I need you to be here for me but I'm hurting you and, and, and I'm so scared and I just want, I want, and…" He began to cry.

Jean Paul wrapped both arms around Bobby and held him closer than he had thought possible. The cold hurt him physically, but not as much as the ache inside. How many people had he lost now? How many that he had loved? His parents, his foster parents, Walter, his daughter, even his sister in a way. Some malevolent god was guiding him into these masochistic relationships. The more likely he was to lose someone, it seemed, the stronger his love for them. It was all he knew.

"It is not fair," he murmured into Bobby's shoulder. His arms tightened around the younger man and Bobby gasped between them. Seeking out Jean Paul's lips, Bobby kissed him quiet.

It was uncomfortable, both shivery and sweaty, cramp inducing and blanket losing lying so close, but they slept like that, clutching each other as though it would make a difference to the inevitable future.


	16. part sixteen

Part Sixteen

A/N: In which I go mildly overboard with hyphens and very short chapter segments. Blame the English degree.

This is also the first time I've ever felt the compulsion to start holding conversations with the characters, 'muse-style'. I don't think main characters have ever got away from me to this extent before. I'm sitting here yelling (mentally) "Enough angst! You've had enough angst! Now is plot time! I don't care how pretty he is and how sad and poignant it is and how lonely you've been, it's plot time!"

The sheer volume of exclamation marks alone ought to be an indicator of just how hard I had to work to get this back on track. The last few chapters shouldn't even exist, according to my plan.

It was driving him quietly insane.

Lying there, watching Bobby breathe, in-two-three-four out-two-three-four. Every night. Watching to make sure he didn't stop. Watching to make sure he didn't die while Jean Paul wasn't looking. Watching to make sure he didn't wake up next to a corpse, if he was honest with himself. Watching Bobby die was infinitely better than waking up next to a dead body. Not even a dead Bobby.

People were beginning to think he was the one that was ill. Forgetting what he was saying half way through sentences, unable to concentrate on any one thing for more than five minutes, falling asleep in classes and spending every available break checking up on Bobby.

They'd fought last night, really fought, and that was why Jean Paul was watching Bobby from the doorway. Despite himself he was still angry with Bobby. He'd felt so belittled, like his love and concern were only irritants. He knew - _hoped _- Bobby didn't really mean it the way it had sounded. But he was still angry and still falling apart at the seams so visibly. He _knew_ Bobby could see how badly all this was affecting him. Which made Bobby feel guilty, which made Jean Paul feel guilty, which made Bobby feel worse and it was all an ever-decreasing vicious circle.

What would he do if Bobby stopped breathing now? Run over and give mouth to mouth? Try and wake him and persuade him to change to his ice form? Accept the inevitable?

Jean Paul left Bobby, breathing in-two-three out-two-three.

He landed on the roof shortly after sunrise, after watching dawn from that privileged position reserved for birds and superheroes. Logan was sitting on the roof, apparently having watched it too. For a moment Jean Paul debated landing at all, or using his speed to ensure he wouldn't be seen.

As Jean Paul's feet touched the concrete, graceful as ever - and more than part of that grace simply for an audience that never appreciated it - Logan held out a beer. He took it and sat down next to his on-again-off-again teammate.

They drank in silence, Jean Paul's metabolism reacting to the presence of a depressant in his system and making him a little drowsy. Or perhaps that was just the lack of sleep, and he was over-complicating things. He leant back against the small concrete wall meant to keep people from wandering off the roof by accident.

Logan swirled the remainder of his beer around in the can and eyed it through the keyhole. He grunted and grabbed an opened can.

"Your boy's fine," he said after a while. "He's going to stay that way for a couple of weeks at least, so you might as well get some sleep."

"He is not my boy," Jean Paul murmured in reply. There was something simply pleasant about having someone around who always knew. Something deeply irritating too, of course, but still reassuring. He didn't have to offer any explanations.

"Yer getting an ulcer," Logan added after a pause.

Jean Paul grimaced. That was a less pleasant thing about his teammate. Besides, he knew he was getting an ulcer. He wasn't eating enough to keep up with his metabolism and his stomach acid was rebelling, so that even without the constant stress and worry he'd be very much at risk. Of course, it left him with a constant stomachache, which put him off eating even further.

"I will get some anti-acids from Annie," he said. It belatedly occurred to him that these stops and starts were Logan's way of trying to draw him into something resembling a conversation. He sighed. "You expect me not to worry?" he asked bitterly.

"You got him worrying about you, and he don't want to do that. The sick are selfish."

Yes, Bobby _was_ selfish, and it was driving Jean Paul up the wall. So selfish and so needy and sometimes Jean Paul didn't feel like a real person, just an extension of Bobby who worried when Bobby worried and smiled when Bobby smiled and who would die when Bobby died. He knew about this, knew to expect it, but the resentment wasn't going away no matter what he knew.

"Slim said to tell yer that yer taking the day off," Logan told him. "Even he can see how bad yer getting."

"Does he know about Bobby?" Jean Paul asked, accepting the news easily.

"No, on both counts." Logan snorted. "How, I don't know - rest of the mansion's well aware what's going on in that room." He added, more seriously, "Yer gonna make yerself some enemies before all this is through."

Jean Paul grimaced. "I know. Bastards."

Logan shook his head. "Not coz of you, coz of Bobby. Yer might as well expect me to smile an' nod an' be _polite_ when Jubilee brings home her first boyfriend."

Jean Paul chuckled dryly. "People are protective of my Bobby?" he said, asking it as a question but knowing and ignoring the answer.

Logan lit a cigar and chewed on the end for a moment. Eventually, he said, "Some people are protective of you, too."

Jean Paul had considered sleeping in Bobby's room. The smells were more familiar to him now than those of his own room. Whether because Bobby was still mad at him, or he was still mad at Bobby, or whether he simply wanted some real sleep without worrying about waking up with a dead Bobby-body, he found himself in his own large bed. He hadn't slept in it since he'd last changed the sheets, and they retained some of that just-washed smell, combined with a lonely mustiness.

He was woken around lunchtime by a warm nose on his cheek. He opened an eye to see a fully dressed Bobby Drake sprawled across the covers, so close he couldn't focus on his face. He smiled and Bobby smiled.

"How you feeling?" Bobby asked, like it was Jean Paul who was slowly dying.

"Better," Jean Paul told him. "Et vous?"

"Bon," Bobby grinned at him. He nuzzled Jean Paul's cheek and stole a quick kiss. "I missed you last night," he admitted.

This was new for Bobby. New and made Jean Paul warm in a way he hadn't expected. Bobby Drake, missing intimacy? Of course, following the pattern of their relationship tomorrow night he would be throwing Jean Paul out of his room. Hot and cold, on and off.

"I missed you too, cher," Jean Paul told him, wriggling an arm out from under the covers to wrap around Bobby. He kissed the crown of Bobby's head and wondered if he had his shoes on the white spread. Bobby nestled his head into Jean Paul's chest, hair tickling Jean Paul's chin. Jean Paul expected some moment's silence, comfortable, but Bobby had words to say.

"I..." Bobby swallowed, "I love you."

Jean Paul was furious.

It was strange, lying there in the half dark with Bobby's head on his chest, looking away from him. He was angry, and he knew Bobby had expected it. Because, well, because he'd taken it for granted. He'd assumed Bobby loved him, and he hadn't, not before. Maybe not even now. Maybe he was just saying because he felt he had to, before the end. Maybe he felt obliged because Jean Paul had said it. Maybe he had just been scared of what would happen when Jean Paul realised he was alone in this.

"I know," he said quietly.

He felt Bobby relax on his chest, and he stroked Bobby's hair idly. He knew he was being stupid. Bobby would no more say 'I love you' if he didn't mean it than Jean Paul would. So what if it had taken him a little longer?

"So, who's taking your classes?" Bobby asked after a few moments silence together.

Jean Paul's mouth quirked. "Wolverine."

"Wolvie?" Bobby turned to face Jean Paul, eyes wide in disbelief.

"I knew today would be good as soon as he said so," Jean Paul told him, grinning. They shared a laugh.

The implications of Wolverine's words regarding Scott's blindness to Bobby's condition only really sank in during the briefing a few days later. Jean Paul simply stared.

"This will very much depend on you, Bobby," Scott was saying.

Bobby was nodding and looked... looked happy, in a way. Grimly happy, but definitely satisfied.

Jean Paul's mouth opened and closed.

"I knew I could depen-"

"No," Jean Paul managed to croak. "No you can't."

No one heard him, not at first, but Warren was looking over, eyes narrowing. And Jean Paul realised that Warren knew about Bobby's condition, and so did Hank, and Paige must by now, surely, and no one else was saying a damn thing.

"I do not think-" he tried again.

Bobby shot him a very cold, very hard look.

Jean Paul stood up. "I do not think Iceman is capable of this mission."

It was Cyclops's stare he chose to meet and hold. Teeth gritted, jaw firm, he stared at his reflection in the red glasses until his eyes began to water.

"And what leads you to have such little faith in your team mate?" Scott asked.

"I do not lack faith in Bobby," Jean Paul corrected him. "I am simply expressing my concern that while he might be able to complete this mission alone, it would be an unnecessary risk."

"And can you recommend someone who might go with him, or in his place?" Cyclops asked, lips barely moving.

"I am able to withstand extremes of temperature," Jean Paul told him. "I volunteer to go in his place."

"No!" Bobby was on his feet as well. "Scott, you can't let him do that!"

Scott looked from one to the other and back again. "Is there something I should know?" he asked softly.

Both men shook their heads.

"Scott, this is my mission. I'm fine with it. You know I'll be fine with it."

"Bobby, you know that you-" Jean Paul bit off the end of the sentence, not wanting to upset Bobby further by revealing his 'secret'.

"Jean Paul, I do not concur with you," Hank said. "I believe Bobby is quite capable of performing that segment of the mission alone, with no danger to his health or any other person's."

Scott turned to look at Hank. "There is something I ought to know, isn't there?" he said softly. He scanned the room, looking each team member in the eye until he reached Jean Paul.

"Northstar, if you can not give me a good reason for your objections, you can consider yourself cut from all active teams for an undetermined period of time."

Jean Paul swallowed.

"It is Bobby's health he is concerned for," Hank spoke for him.

"I want to hear _Jean Paul's_ reason," Scott said firmly. "In fact, he can consider himself suspended if he fails to give any reason at all. I do not appreciate such interruptions in meetings."

Jean Paul ground his teeth. "As our Doctor says, I was concerned for Drake's health. As the Doct-"

"Why?"

"Ce qui?"

"Why is everyone so concerned for Bobby's health, and why ha no one seen fit to inform me of anything he might be suffering from?" Scott's gaze flicked from Jean Paul, to Hank, to Bobby, to Jean Paul again. He thought he knew where best to apply pressure to get answers.

"The ice," Jean Paul sighed.

"The ice?"

"After the trial Jean Paul seems convinced that I can't be relied on to do anything," Bobby said quickly. And... bitterly?

Scott frowned. "I'd forgotten about that. Perhaps it would be best to provide you with some back up."

"I feel he should be withdrawn entirely," Jean Paul said, trying to ignore the sharp pain Bobby's words had produced.

"You are still stepping perilously close to suspension," Scott warned him. "We have heard Hank's professional opinion," he added, turning to throw a suspicious glance at his friend, "and I see no reason to withdraw Bobby."

"It is not a secondary mutation!" Jean Paul shouted desperately. "He is sick! He is dying!"

It was some obscure hour of the morning before Scott let them all leave. Jean Paul had been silent most of the time, only responding to questions such as "How long have you known?" Bobby had had to put up with most of it, though he was hardly more responsive.

Bobby waited for everyone else to leave. Even when Scott prompted him he didn't move, only glowering at Scott. It was painful, watching him stand in the doorway like that. He hated that he'd hurt one of his oldest friends so badly. He kept the anger and resentment on his face to keep from breaking down entirely, but it wasn't the effort it might have been.

He continued to watch the door until Scott's footsteps had faded entirely. Slowly, he turned his head. His eyes fixed on Jean Paul.

Bobby launched himself across the table so violently his chair flew backwards, hitting the wall with a thump and showering the carpet with plaster dust. Despite his speed Jean Paul's reaction time was human, and Bobby had him pinned to the wall before he could move.

Bobby was breathing heavily through clenched teeth, hissing. When Jean Paul tried to move he shoved him back against the wall again, harder, icing up as he did so. He was far too angry to speak, words incapable of articulating the fury inside him. The wall began to ice over, Jean Paul freezing to it.

"Bobby..."

Bobby wrenched himself away, turning to stare at the opposite wall while he tried to find something in him that maintained a semblance of rational thought. All he needed was enough to allow him to speak.

He found words.

"I don't want you to talk to me."

The ice cracked as Jean Paul pulled himself away from the wall.

"You know I-"

"Are you deaf?"

"No." Jean Paul's voice was laced with anger too now, that same controlled edge to it suggesting a sane man ought to back down and back away now.

"How dare you?" Bobby spun around. "How could you dare?" His voice shot up an octave.

"'ow could you even _think_ of puttin' yourself in danger like that?" Jean Paul demanded, accent thickening in anger.

"You had no right to tell them that!" Bobby shrieked.

"I love you! Does that give me no right?"

"It means nothing!" Bobby told him, freezing tears before Jean Paul could see them in his icy eyes.

"Nothin'?" Jean Paul stepped back, bumping into the wall. Bobby tried not to see his face.

"It doesn't give you the right to tell people my secrets."

"Dey are your friends, are dey not? You were not goin' to be tellin' dem?"

"Not like this!"

"An' when were you goin' to be telling' dem? Was it goin' to be written on your grave? 'I'm Sorry I Didn't Say I Was Sick'?" Jean Paul mocked Bobby's accent.

"You had no right to tell them!" Bobby repeated, no longer hiding the tears. "No right."

"I 'ad every right," Jean Paul said, voice softening. He began to move towards Bobby again. "Someone 'ad to tell dem. I was lookin' after you."

He stepped into arms reach as he finished speaking, and was rewarded with a punch that would have made Wolverine proud. He staggered sideways and collapsed to the floor. Later, he'd have matching bruises on his chin and his hip.

"And what makes you think I need you to look after me?" Bobby asked, cold as his body.

"You are sick," Jean Paul mumbled, still dazed. He had one hand to his jaw, tracing the damage.

"I don't need looking after, Beaubier. I look after myself. What makes you think you'd even be suitable for a role as my caretaker?" Bobby stepped towards him, head held high.

"I wanted to 'elp," Jean Paul said quietly. His hand dropped to the floor and he pushed himself onto his knees.

"You are overprotective," Bobby told him. He stepped over Jean Paul's still prone form and continued towards the door. "The thing you want to protect me from is the one thing you can't, and so you overcompensate. And I don't need that, understand? I don't need to be dealing with it."

Jean Paul climbed to his feet. "I can not protect you from your poison," he agreed, "but someone 'as to protect you from yourself."

"No, they don't." Bobby bit out. "You have been nothing but a nuisance since this began, Jean Paul. Understand: I want you out of my life. For the rest of it, no matter how long or short that is."

Bobby was a few paces from the doorway when Jean Paul began to breathe again. To think again.

"Do you want to die?"

Bobby stopped midstep.

"Are you trying to die?"

Bobby turned around slowly.

"When did you become so casual to death?" Jean Paul said, looking Bobby in the eyes and holding that gaze. His mouth was a thin cruel line. His head was lowered so that he stared at Bobby through his eyelashes. He looked demonic with his pointed ears and flashing eyes. Bobby took a deep breath, trying to squash the terror that had risen inside him.

"I'm not," Bobby answered, voice much more uncertain than he would have liked.

"Pourquoi essayez-vous de vous tuer?"

Bobby hurled a stream of ice at his lover, who dodged easily.

The temperature in the room dropped and continued dropping. Bobby made several more attempts to freeze Jean Paul still, resulting in a criss-cross of ice beams that trapped both of them in opposite corners of the room. As a final resort Bobby began to draw moisture from the air and from Jean Paul.

"Am I a bad man for not wanting you dead?"

Bobby hit Jean Paul square in the chest with a bolt of ice, throwing him through the large window at the end of the room. Dehydrated, cold, winded, mildly concussed from the earlier punch, emotionally drained. He hit the ground two stories below and crumpled.

Bobby was looking down at him, fingers curled around shards of glass. Slowly he allowed himself to slip back into 'human', but the pain and horror and regret he expected didn't come.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Bobby crossed his opposite arm over his body and gripped the hand.

"We need to talk, Bobby," Warren said.


	17. part seventeen

Part Seventeen

_A/N: Seventeen chapters and someone finally points out I've misspelled the title? Da-mn... Anyway, we're moving past the angst now, and nobody's dead. There's hope yet! And yet at least another third or so of the fic to go. And I'm sitting here having sequel ideas 0.o_

_ETA: Cut the Paige bit. Polka Dot's right, that's overcomplicating it. In the original plan hte fight was a lot less violent, and occured much sooner. As it is I've had to replot most of the ending now, because the fight kind of took any impact away from what was going to happen. Either I have to get them back together again or I leave them seperated. That fight has now screwed most of the rest of the fic. Damn. If (when) I edit and rewrite chunks of this, I may revert to the original plan and take off the ending of the fight.  
_

"Jean Paul, I know you want to be alone and nurse your wounds in private, but I really think you ought to let me at least take a look."

Nurse Annie fretted outside Jean Paul's door. If she had been a little more confident, and Jean Paul a little less homicidally inclined right now, she might have added something along the lines of, "We all know you're just sulking in there. Why not sulk comfortably?" But the growl and thump of something large and heavy hitting the door when she'd first called his name had deterred her. Jean Paul wasn't in a place where irritating him into submission was an option.

"Jean Paul, you know you healer faster than most. What if your bones set wrong? I don't know what's broken, or how indeed you hauled yourself up here, but if you don't let someone take a look you may find you can never run again, just because you were stubborn."

Still no reply, and Annie was running out of ideas. She had only one card left to play.

"Jean Paul, Doctor McCoy would like to examine your wounds too."

As before, silence.

"Is he going to have to apply force?" Annie added.

The door remained closed. Great, now she'd actually have to _fetch _Hank.

"I could open that door fer yer," a voice startled her. She glanced over to see Wolverine leaning against the wall behind her, arms folded across his chest.

"Any help would be appreciated," Annie admitted.

"Oi, Johnny," Wolverine called. "You know yer boyfriend's sleeping in Wings's bed right now?"

When no reply came to this Annie and Wolverine exchanged concerned looks. Logan unsheathed his claws and slid them first through the lock, the through the hinges. Annie frowned, but he ignored her as the door fell through the doorway.

It didn't hit the carpet. Looking around the room Annie felt her heart in her throat. Wolverine hauled the door from the lump that propped it up. Annie moved quickly to the bal of sheets, kneeling beside them and noting the blood stains with a nurse's eye. Jean Paul wasn't amongst the soiled bedclothes, but he wasn't anywhere else to be seen either.

"If he's mobile enough to shoot out of here while I was talking to him, perhaps he doesn't need my help," Annie murmured.

"He's here," Logan grunted.

"Oui, I am 'ere," a voice came from the ensuite bathroom, clipped and angry. "I am fine."

Annie was in the bathroom before even Logan could react. Jean Paul was sat on the edge of the bath, a bandage wound around his chest and another in the process of splinting his arm. His eyes were bloodshot and he glowered at Annie as she stepped over the explosion of a first aid kit.

After a quick scan, she said, "Well, it's not as bad as I thought it was going to be. How many ribs do you think you've broken?"

"I am fine," Jean Paul repeated, but he let her take over tending to his arm.

"Everyone knows yer fought," Wolverine said, stuck in the doorway due to the size of the room. "There's rumours yer dead."

Jean Paul huffed a laugh, but it was obvious he was in too much pain to do much else. Annie glanced at his back and flinched. Going through a window backwards could do that to a person's skin.

"Yer hiding," Wolverine said bluntly. "Yer gonna pretend none of this ever happen?"

"I am going to try," Jean Paul said defiantly, lifting his head to make eye contact with Logan. "Until I see him again I am going to put the whole matter to one side."

Logan shook his head, almost smiling. "Yer gonna be a stubborn prat, aren't yer?"

"Oui." Jean Paul almost smiled. "I shall play to my talents."

"Yer'll want to talk this out with him before the end of the day, or you two'll never talk again."

"Is he really in Worthington's bed?" Jean Paul asked, voice dangerously detached.

"He's got stuff he has to talk out with Wings too, or he'll never talk to any one again."

* * *

Bobby woke up in Warren's large bed, draped with a burgundy sheet. It felt like Warren had stood on the other side of the room and thrown it at him. Was he scared of catching gay cooties or something? Bobby's throat hurt.

He sat up and rubbed at his eyes. He'd iced up again at some point during his sleep. It was happening a lot these days, when his breath grew short or his heart struggled to beat. He'd left water marks on Warren's sheets. He didn't care.

He wasn't sure he wanted to get up. Getting up implied a new day, and a new day meant a morning after, and a morning after meant he'd thrown Jean Paul out of a window the night before.

He buried his head in his hands with a deep, shuddering breath.

The windows were huge in this room. Opened outwards. Warren was framed by them, watching.

The whole room was large, really. Had the air of a penthouse apartment. Ensuite, over there, and the desk is the same size as Bobby's bed. The bed is the same size as Bobby's room. None of them had really changed rooms much since they arrived. First come, first served. Bobby's room still had that cramped student feel, everything in reach from the bed. Hank had the room near the labs, also small. He couldn't remember Scott's room, couldn't even remember if he'd seen inside it.

Jean Paul's room had Jean Paul in it.

"I think it's for the best, you know," Warren said with forced casualness.

He had a tray that he placed before Bobby on the bed. Bobby stared at the cereal and fried breakfast, orange juice and coffee. Stared up at Warren. Sucked the moisture from the food and left it crispy and dry as dust.

"I need to talk to Scott," Bobby said a little while later, when Warren return to brush the few remaining errant crumbs from his covers.

"I think he'll understand," Warren reassured him. "And Hank was very certain that you would be okay."

"He has me drinking this vile thing," Bobby said, gesturing vaguely. "I think it's got some kind of plant in it."

"A surprising amount of medicines do," Warren smirked.

Bobby flopped back onto the bed. "You wanted to talk?" he said softly, only half remembering the end of the night.

"Hmm? Oh, yes. You are going to dump Northstar after this, aren't you?"

Bobby closed his eyes and reminded himself that he didn't have to try and breathe past the lump in his throat in this form. His chest hitched.

"Is that it?" he breathed. "Is that all?"

"I don't know what you mean," Warren said stiffly.

"Aren't you going to tell me I'm still in love with you again?" Bobby snapped, but without much anger. He couldn't bear to get into another fight.

"We had that talk," Warren said.

"No, we had that fight."

"So let's avoid it, okay?"

"Why wouldn't you let me talk to you?" Bobby burst out, flinging himself back upright and making Warren jump back in surprise. "All I wanted to do was talk, Warren. Warren, I, Warren..." His words dissolved into sobs. He pressed his finger to his eyes and seemingly into them, ice melting and moving to give both of them the illusion that he was reaching into his head. "I wasn't in love with you, Warren, I _wasn't_."

Strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him up to his knees. Bobby clung to his friend, trying to ignore the goosebumps and shivering and the way they uncomfortably stuck together. This would be his whole life soon. If Jean Paul wanted to kiss him he'd have to be prepared to lose the skin from his lips, like he'd breathed on the lock on his car and stuck.

Bobby forced himself back to as human as he could manage. Ice snaked up his throat and a patch had emerged at the base of his spine, a sign that it had gone straight through his abdomen. He couldn't eat now if he wanted to.

Warren pulled away. "It's okay, Bobby," he said distantly. "Everything's okay."

Bobby shook his head, partly in disagreement, partly trying to clear it.

"Everything going to be fine," Warren said, voice taking on a slightly strained edge. "Really, Bobby, everything's going to be find and go back to how it was, you understand? It's over. Everything's alright."

"Warren, we jerked each other off in the shower." Bobby smiled grimly.

"That was a long time ago!" Warren near-shrieked. "Forget it, Bobby. Everything's normal, okay?"

"Normal means I get turned on by your naked body, Warren."

Warren collapsed into a sitting position on the bed, silenced. His mouth still moved occasionally.

"Warren, I like men. You are a very attractive man, and I know you know that," Bobby began to chuckle dryly, but the laugh died in his throat. "I do find you attractive," he went on solemnly, "but I'm in love with Jean Paul."

"I know," Warren said.

"So... Why?" Bobby asked.

"Why what? Why do I want you to dump him? He's a prat."

"Why would you never let me talk to you?" Bobby murmured. "I needed a friend to talk to. That was all."

"How was I meant to know that?" Warren snapped. Their eyes met. "Bobby, we barely knew each other. How was I meant to know what you wanted from me?"

Bobby shrugged awkwardly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "You could have asked," he pointed out. "And you had to know me well enough to know I'd have laughed it all off as some weird joke, if I thought you were freaking out."

"Then that's what would have happened, and you'd have been just as screwed up as you are," Warren pointed out.

Bobby sighed. "Didn't you want to talk too?"

Warren stretched his legs out in front of him, apparently fascinated by his feet. Bobby slipped his hand into his best friend's.

"I almost went to the professor and asked him to wipe the memory," Warren said softly. "I mean, he almost certainly knew what had happened. Then I thought Jean, but how do you even begin a conversation like that?" He squeezed Bobby's hand. "Talking about it meant thinking about it, which meant thinking about me." He looked over at his friend. "You see why I asked you not to say a word?"

"You're worse than me," Bobby laughed. "Quite an achievement."

Warren smiled back, but it was slightly off. He let his eyes rake over Bobby's face, taking in every unshaven hair, every slight crease in the skin, the firmness of the jaw and the thinness of the much abused hair. Bobby Drake was a man in his mid to late twenties. He might play the kid, but he wasn't one. Warren swallowed.

Bobby had grown up, but he still played the kid as though he hadn't changed at all. Which begged the question: had he been playing all along? Had he ever been a kid?

Warren leant over and placed a very gentle kiss on the corner of Bobby's mouth. Bobby watched, and obliged, but didn't react in any other way Warren could divine.

"You were just this little kid," Warren said quietly. "Just this kid who was kinda goofy and funny and _young_. I just felt like I'd taken complete advantage. I mean, you were a kid. You couldn't... No, I _thought_ you couldn't just lust. I thought you had to be in love with me, because you were a kid and way too innocent for any of that other stuff. And I abused that love because I wondered if another guy's hand would feel like my own or like a girl's."

"But now you know better?" Bobby murmured. He flushed slightly. "I mean, about me, not about the hand thing." He paused. "What was the result of that experiment?"

"It felt like child abuse," Warren snorted. "The only way I could live with myself was to promise myself I'd never let anyone else treat you, or anyone else I know, in the same way."

"You could have done better there," Bobby smirked. "I come out of most relationships feeling used. Most of the time I can't even work out what possessed me to enter them."

"That's just normal, Bobby. What I did was never..."

"What?" Bobby challenged him. "Consensual sexual gratification? Okay, so maybe I did have a bit of a crush on you back then, but I wasn't waiting for you to get down on one knee for me."

"I know," Warren snapped. "I _know_. That's what all this is about, isn't it? You didn't love me. You don't. Everything was all just fine and no one did anything wrong and I've just been a bastard to you."

"I do love you, War, just like I love Hank and Scott and Jubilee and Annie and most of the people here, except a bit more because you're you and I've had longer to love you, you insecure twit." Bobby wrapped an arm around Warren's shoulders. "You really didn't do anything wrong, and I'm glad to know you've been looking out for me."

Warren shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I love you too, in that way."

Bobby chuckled. "is this all getting a bit too 'male-bonding'?" he teased.

Warren met his eyes and a wicked look came over his own. Bobby tensed against him in delicious anticipation. Warren's lips touched his and Bobby opened his mouth immediately. Warren's tongue traced the top of his mouth, his hand sneaking into Bobby's hair.

Warren broke the kiss. Bobby was smiling slightly.

"I have to go and sort things out with Jean Paul," Bobby said softly, reaching around Warren's wings to give him a quick hug.

"Yes, you do that," Warren agreed, ruffling his hair with the hand still buried there.

"No, I mean... I love him, Warren. I _love_ him. I have to go and make things right. And... and I'd like to know you're behind me in that."

Warren opened his mouth, but before he could speak a strange smirk sealed it again.

Bobby laughed out loud. "Not like that, you pervert!"

Warren grinned. "Of course not," he teased. More seriously, he went on, "I am behind you, Bobby, and beside you and with you in every way. I'll never like him, but you do, and I guess I'll have to live with that."

"See now, it wasn't so hard," Bobby needled him. "And just to make certain, what are my feelings for you?"

"I was going to say purely platonic, but that kiss sure as hell didn't taste like it."

Bobby looked worried, so Warren chucked a pillow at him.

"I'm _joking_, Bobby. I know you love him, and it's nothing to do with me. I just also know that he completely doesn't deserve a guy like you, so forgive me for getting a little protective occasionally, will you?"

"A little jealous, you mean." Bobby threw the pillow back. "He's not going to hurt me just because he's a guy. I mean, compared with women like Lorna, I think he'd have to pull out all the stops to even come close."

"I guess I just know first hand how cruel we men can be," Warren reminded him.

"So do I," Bobby pointed out. "After last night... Look, I've got to go. I'll see you soon, 'kay?"

"Yeah, see ya."

And so Bobby wandered through the doorway with a renewed sense of purpose and a genuine smile.


	18. part eighteen

**Part Eighteen**

_A/N: See, not dead!__I'm even halfway through the next chapter. Having no internet for three weeks really kickstarts the creative flow. One thing to mention, since I noticed someone commented on it in the reviews: I am English. I use English spellings. I will, on occasion, use English words and phrases, though I try to avoid it when I know it's different in America. So, yes, they're not misspellings, they're just different._**  
**

Jean Paul's door was lying on his carpet. Bobby stared openly for several seconds, catching the attention of a team mate who happened to be walking past.

"Logan opened it up," Kurt told him, pausing to lean against the wall next to Bobby. "Nurse Annie wanted to make sure our friend was still breathing."

"Still... Oh."

Kurt smiled reassuringly. "He is fine, mein freund. Angry, but only minor injuries."

Bobby wasn't listening. He had iced up, and was staring through his hands with a sick fascination.

"I have heard what happened, though I was not present." Kurt placed a hand on Bobby's shoulder, shivering only slightly. "If he was in your situation, would you not worry about him?"

"No... I mean, yes, obviously, but I wouldn't betray his confidences like that," Bobby said quietly. The temperature began to drop.

"I don't think you are ready to speak to him yet."

Frost had formed on Kurt's fur. He couldn't have taken his hand from Bobby's shoulder if he had wanted to. Slowly, Bobby turned his head to look at him.

"No," Bobby agreed softly. His voice was strained.

Kurt forced a brief smile. "You could always talk Miss Frost into changing his memory," he joked.

Bobby grimaced. "I shouldn't be seriously considering that now, should I?"

"Nein," Kurt said, shocked. "No, you should not, mein freund."

"I concur, _mein freund_," said a voice from inside the room, a predilection for French stretching and rolling the Rs.

Kurt looked from one man to the other, noting that the look they were exchanging was as cold as the air around them. With a considered tug, Kurt pulled his hand from Bobby's shoulder, trying not to wince at the blue handprint of fuzz left there. His palm smarted.

"I shall... I shall go," he said quietly, backing away. He resolved to warn Annie as soon as possible, though he walked away rather than teleport. He needed to count the number of rooms along this side of the mansion so he would know which window to position himself below, just in case.

* * *

Warren passed Paige in the corridor, apparently without even registering her presence. She stopped and turned to stare after him as he strode away.

Deep in thought didn't begin to cover the concentration Warren was focusing on his problems right now. The rug had been pulled out from under him, and in his head he couldn't fly. Time to go and see if Hank would catch him.

Unlike Bobby, Warren hadn't spent so much time in the labs. He still considered Hank one of his oldest and dearest friends, but chemicals made him nervous. Also, he admitted to himself, he had made the most of being the most attractive of the male X-men, while Bobby and Hank had had to settle for girls-next-door and second best, when they were given the opportunity at all. Warren had considered himself worldly and mature and every bit the billionaire playboy, and hadn't been able to relate to two awkward youths still scared by the more beautiful girls.

And boys, he reminded himself. Bobby liked boys. Even then, which felt a little strange, but had to be true.

Hank opened the door almost as soon as he knocked. Another change to get used to, that huge blue feline exterior. It was still Hank, though. Warren knew Hank might doubt that sometimes, but none of his friends ever did. He could be a pink and purple polka-dotted Walrus, and still be Hank underneath. Maybe the smile had more teeth in it these days, and pointier ones, but it was just as warm and broad.

"Ah, Warren. This is a somewhat rare occurrence."

Warren grimaced. "Yeah. Sorry."

"You are always welcome," Hank told him.

"Oh, I know. I'm sorry I don't take advantage of it often enough," Warren explained. His smile was awkward and a little embarrassed.

"Well, I appreciate you coming now. In fact, your timing is extremely fortuitous," Hank said, leading him into the lab with one huge paw on Warren's arm.

"Really?"

"Would you mind if I took a sample of your blood, my friend?"

Warren, whose mind was already possessed with thoughts of Bobby, caught on quickly. "You think I can help?" he asked.

"It is an avenue I have not yet explored," Hank said cautiously.

Warren almost asked why, but remembered his recent behaviour. He hopped up onto the examination bed and rolled up a sleeve, much as Bobby had done many a time. He kept silent while Hank drew blood, not entirely trusting his voice to maintain his pride.

"Bobby and I have made up," Warren said while Hank studied the sample under a microscope. He knew Hank would have done the same thing many times since Warren's secondary mutation kicked in and felt safe distracting him slightly.

"I am most pleased for the two of you," Hank said, sounding it.

"Did... did he tell you why we fought?" Warren asked softly.

"No, my feathered friend, he did not. An unusual break to his loquaciousness, prompted, he told me, by a promise he made to you."

"Yes." Warren couldn't kick his legs like Bobby did, since his feet touched the floor, but he found himself bouncing one leg instead. He saw Hank looking at him, and wondered if Hank made the connection too. Hank's indulgent smile said he did. "Yes," Warren repeated. "I... I could tell you."

"Do you want to?" Hank asked softly, abandoning his usual prose.

Warren stared at his knees. "I talked to Bobby last night."

"Yes, you mentioned that."

"I never told anyone about what happened between us," Warren said with a wry smile, "even him, you see?"

"Bobby's a talkative person," Hank observed.

"He's gone to talk to Jean Paul, and make up."

"I hope that goes well for him," Hank said with a sigh, taking his glasses off and polishing them with a corner of his lab coat. "From what I know of the other man, though, Bobby may find himself at a dead end."

Warren grimaced. "He can do better," he said.

"I do not think that is what is going through his mind right now," Hank admonished gently.

"I know," Warren sighed. "I guess he's not exactly spoilt for choice. Still..." He looked up at Hank and forgot the end of the sentence. Hank was watching him, all of his attention on him. Listening like a good friend. Warren knew he'd been ducking around what he'd come here to tell Hank. He still couldn't think of a _reason_ for doing so, but after years of friendship he knew that the less reason the more need.

"It was just after we all arrived here. Those communal showers. I caught Bobby jerking off and... and I... I joined him." Warren flinched. "I mean, we did each other. And then I freaked out and forbade him to ever mention it again. He was just such a little kid, you remember? I felt like a pervert. Especially since I'm not into guys. It was just an experiment, and I used him."

"So you bottled it up," Hank said. "You didn't force Bobby to, though. No matter what you made him promise, Bobby's attempts to repress his sexuality were of his own devising."

Warren wanted to object, especially after Bobby's plaintive accusations that morning, but whether it was his respect for Hank's opinion, or something he had already known to be true himself, he knew Hank was right.

"He knows he has my support now," Warren said, nodding. "I may have made a mess of it before, but I think we're clear now."

"I am glad for you both," Hank said. Warren slid off the bed and stepped over to him, wrapping him in a hug with both arms and wings. Hank hugged him back, nose damp against Warren's collarbone. It made Warren smile.

When they released each other Hank went back to his microscope. Warren could see in his quick movements and rippling fur that he was excited about what he was doing. It made Warren agitated too, and he couldn't make himself stand still. His long fingers could do things Hank's paws could not, and he set himself to work helping Hank in any way he could: handing over scientific tools, twisting knobs and pressing buttons, exchanging slides under the microscope, pipetting blood into water and water into blood, and flying straight out through the window to find Bobby as fast as he could.

* * *

"You can consider our relationship over."

"But, but..."

"If it helps," Jean Paul said caustically, "you can tell yourself you broke up with me."

"And how did I do that?" Bobby snapped.

"You threw me out of a window!"

"That wasn't intentional!"

"My broken ribs do not care. I will not stand to be abused, Robert Drake. I do not care if you are dying. I will not be abused, by anyone."

Jean Paul folded his arms. Bobby could tell it was hurting him by the way his shoulders tensed, but Jean Paul was never a man to let a little pain get in the way of a good dramatic gesture. His chest was bandaged tightly, though there were cuts on his stomach and arms that remained visible. Annie must have deemed them shallow enough to leave.

Bobby had expected this to be hard. He'd messed up enough relationships in the past to know that there were a few things that were hard to recover from. Fights on this scale were one, as was physical violence. He knew he wouldn't forgive someone, and Jean Paul had an infinitely shorter temper.

He hadn't brought flowers or chocolates. Standing there, though, he wished he had brought a cup of coffee. It was the sort of gesture that might actually have mollified Jean Paul's anger. A really good cup of coffee.

"I... I see," Bobby said, defeat evident in his sorrowful voice.

Jean Paul's heart was breaking, and he unconsciously pressed one hand to his chest, his broken ribs sending screams of pain around his body to distract him.

"Bobby, I _can_ not stand to be abused, you see?"

"No, I do, I really do. God, just as everything else was beginning to work out!" Bobby ground his teeth in frustration. "Of course _I_ screw it up."

Jean Paul let his arms hang loose now. Some of the cuts itched terribly, but he couldn't bring himself to do anything about it. He understood Bobby's feelings completely, and that only made it worse. The first long term, promising, relationship in years. Except there had never been much chance of a future, had there? He couldn't let that change his resolution, though. It was as much a matter of principle as anything else.

"Robert," Jean Paul sighed. "Robert."

"I know," Bobby interrupted. "It's unforgivable. _I_ know. I wouldn't forgive me."

"I am sorry, mon cher. I am."

Jean Paul shook his head and turned away, wrapping his arms around his waist and staring out of the window. A flash of bright wings suggested Warren was out flying. This afternoon, Jean Paul remembered, he had flying lessons of his own to teach. As bitter as the thought was, he suspected he'd have to ask Warren to take them for him. He couldn't really fly in this state.

"Do... do you believe me when I say I'm sorry?" Bobby asked, somewhere behind him.

"Oui," Jean Paul said. "But it is not enough. It is not something you can take back."

"I know." A pause. "Fuck."

"Oui."

"I'll... go." Jean Paul heard Bobby sigh heavily. "I'll go. I'm sorry, Jean Paul. I... I hope you get better soon."

"I... I wish you the same," Jean Paul said haltingly.

He heard Bobby laugh bitterly as the door closed.


	19. part nineteen

**Part Nineteen**

_A/N: Sorry, short chapter. But an important one!_

_Oh, and points for anyone who recognises what comic Bobby's reading. _

Scott joined them in Hank's lab. Since the revelation of Bobby's affliction he'd been more awkward than usual, and his friends recognised it as a sign of how hurt he had been

by all the secrecy. This was the four of them: the first four X-men. Even Jean had come later. Bobby, completely iced up, found himself thinking that no matter how many fights or how far apart they were, nothing would be able to destroy that unique bond. Not even death.

Bobby was sitting on the bed. His legs were crossed at the ankles, and for once he wasn't swinging them back and forth like a bored school boy. He was wearing an old uniform, a very old uniform: a pair of small black shorts. Hank was at his equipment, rerunning tests he'd already done many times over. He still doubted, despite his confident assertions that had led them all here, the evidence before his eyes. Warren was standing next to him, pretending he wasn't watching each repeated experiment over Hank's shoulder. He looked a little pale, but whether it was from the blood he had given up or the tension that pervaded the room Bobby couldn't tell.

Scott was visible nervous, which Bobby found soothing, in an odd way. He'd been so bad at interacting with the others except in combat situations when they were younger. Skinny and twitchy and shy, overshadowed by Warren's self-confidence and egotism, Hank's intelligence and amiability, even Bobby's juvenile humour. And they'd loved him for it, and loved each other. Here he was, too shy to voice his pain but demonstrating with his presence that despite his discomfort he was here for Bobby.

Hank turned around, frowning and smiling simultaneously. Bobby wondered which of them would feel the greater failure if this didn't work. Hank would blame his skills as a physician, and Bobby and Warren would blame themselves, blame their biology. Hank could do more research, read more texts and consult more experts, but Warren and Bobby couldn't do a thing.

"I suggest, Robert, that you de-ice as far as is possible," Hank said, breaking a silence no one had even noticed. "We will be able to discern the effects that way."

Bobby nodded and took a deep breath, and concentrated. There was a mirror leaning against the wall, so he might see the effects, if there were any, for himself. He hopped off of the bed and walked over to it.

It was not a promising sight. His chest was completely ice and mostly translucent, only ghosts of a few organs remaining, deep in the centre of his body. Three fingers on his left hand were ice, as were both ankles and one foot. He couldn't blink properly because of the ice around his eyes, and even some of his hair was permanently ice now. He raised one of his few living fingers to touch the lobe of his left ear, also still flesh and... and water. Not blood.

He was still holding his breath, fighting to force his lungs to flesh again. Clumps of cells tried to do their job, but his heart was frozen and no blood was pumping. Pain clutched his chest, and Bobby realised with a shock that he was killing the few organs he had left. He didn't need his lungs to breathe: he absorbed oxygen with the water from the air. Of course, that didn't mean he wasn't still quite attached to them.

"Quickly," Bobby said, ice vocal chords producing crystalline tones.

Hank handed him the beaker of faintly pink liquid. Bobby held it, stared at it, mind blank. He couldn't for the life of him think of how to absorb it. It wasn't usually a conscious decision. What if he absorbed the water and not the blood? What if he turned it to ice?

Hank reached around him and looped a label around the beaker, letting it rest on Bobby's fingers. It looked like a gift label, white and pentagonal, tied on string. Bobby turned it over. It read: Drink Me.

"Are you sure I won't suddenly grow huge, and start chatting to caterpillars?" he asked, grinning broadly.

Hank held up a small cupcake, also pink, with Eat Me in icing on the top. Bobby laughed, throwing his head back. He showed the cupcake to Scott and Warren. Head still back, Bobby raised the beaker, toasted the room briefly, and threw the contents down his throat in one go. He screwed up his face and stuck out his tongue, wringing another laugh from the nervous crowd, and stuffed the cupcake into his mouth, swallowing it almost whole.

He lowered his head and met his eyes in the mirror. He could see both the bloody water and the muffin. He wondered if that had had blood in too.

"How do we know if it works?" Bobby asked. "I'm guessing it will take a while, and a bunch more doses, right?"

"Almost indubitably," Hank said. "My experiments have shown that the healing blood of our wingéd wonder removes the virulent strain in your own. At the very least, it should prevent any further progression."

Bobby stared at his reflection and wrapped his arms around himself. He knew that that was Hank's most pessimistic outcome, knew that the formula would probably do far more, but he still felt a burst of anger. It was too late for simply halting the disease! Why hadn't Hank tried this earlier? Why had Warren been so petty?

Bobby forced himself to lower his arms, and braced himself for hours of observation.

* * *

"Jean Paul Beaubier, B E A U B I E R." Jean Paul sighed and leant back in his chair. "I have rented from your company before."

Annie grabbed the back of his chair and forced it upright. Jean Paul hadn't even been aware he'd been tilting backwards. His feet were on his desk, resting on a phonebook. Papers were left ungraded, currently stacked on the floor. Lesson plans were two or three bullet points, involving videos, textbooks or worksheets Jean Paul had photocopied from a textbook. The door was still open to students, and certain nurses, but no one stayed long.

Annie walked around and sat on the desk, willing to wait patiently for Jean Paul to finish his call. Willingness that was not shared.

"No, I will not hold," Jean Paul snapped, and slammed the phone down.

"It's so hard to find good help these days," Annie sighed, rolling her eyes.

Jean Paul didn't seem to appreciate the joke.

"I wish to be away from here as soon as possible," he said. "This institute depresses me! It is bad for my health. I shall take your earlier advice, my friend, and travel to some exotic island overflowing with nubile young men, and I simply will not come back."

"I'll miss you," Annie offered.

Jean Paul sighed heavily. "And I you," he said with a dismissive wave, leaving Annie feeling slightly insulted. "I just can not bear to be here any longer."

"You're running from Bobby," Annie told him. "You can't deny that. Don't even try."

"Of course I am," Jean Paul said. "But," and he held up a finger, "I was contemplating leaving long before I even began dating him. I was contemplating leaving from the moment I arrived. I was guilted into starting here, manipulated with the death of a child. I ask myself: is that the sort of institute I wish to work for? Are the sort of people who employ that sort of tactic the people I wish to associate myself with? Non, Annie, non. There are a few people here, a very few, whose company I have not only tolerated but sought out. And I will continue to seek out," he finished, finger dropping and shoulders drooping. "I shall really, truly miss you, Annie."

Annie leant over and gave him a one armed hug, trying not to fall off of the table. Jean Paul helped her balance again.

"Where are you going to go? What are you going to do?" she asked, trying to make sure it sounded like curiosity and concern, rather than an attempt to dissuade him from leaving.

"I shall first, if the universe permits, find an apartment, a modern penthouse with beautiful views and a minimum of two guest bedrooms, somewhere in Quebec. I am struggling to care where any more," he said, gesturing towards the phone with an expression of disgust. "I shall contact Alpha Flight, though I have no intention of rejoining. However, it will give me an opportunity to reconnect with some old friends. And then, chere, I shall find my sister."

"It's a good plan," Annie said, keeping the defeat from her voice.

Jean Paul picked up a pen and began doodling circles on the open phone book. "No, it is not," he said. "It is a way of avoiding Bobby. It may accomplish a few good things, but nothing I could not accomplish without leaving here. And, I will be lonely."

"You have plenty of friends in Canada, Jean Paul."

"No, I do not. I have burnt many bridges. Some simply by moving here. I have acquaintances, and with work I could reform friendships, but with my moods and feelings now I shall be quite incapable of that, as you well know. I shall snap and snark and be cruel to everyone until my misery is quite justified. Which is why," he said, pulling the phone book towards him and scribbling over the companies he had already tried, "I must have the most perfect apartment. I must have a new and beautiful car. Expensive clothes that make me look even more beautiful than my car. I must have substitutes!" He threw the phone book across the room.

"You don't have to go," Annie told him, climbing off of the desk to give him a proper hug. Jean Paul pulled her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her waist. "You can cope with this, Jean Paul, I know you can. I know you will be healthier for it in the long run, too. It is possible to survive having your heart broken. I'm here for you. I love you."

"I love you too," Jean Paul said, pressing his head against her shoulder. "But I can not stay. I can not sit and watch him _die_, Annie. I have watched too many people I love die."

Annie squeezed him tightly. She had no argument for that.

* * *

Bobby was flipping through an old comic book Scott had brought for him, complete with ice-powered chicks. A superhero team visiting hell, a fiery female dooming her ice maiden friend by looking back. Bobby could feel the eyes of his friends on him.

"Shouldn't he have digested it by now?" Warren asked for the seventeenth time. Bobby ignored him. He had retreated to a chair in the corner of the room, no longer able to look at his reflection. He could still see his 'meal' sitting in his stomach, a trail of pink down his chest and a faint blur in his abdomen. There was the occasional promising tendril, but nothing had changed in hours.

"If we base Bobby's absorption rate on a human biological model," Hank began, like he had the last four times. Bobby figured he was just trying to irritate Warren now. "... then yes, he should have."

That was new. Bobby's head snapped around. He stood up, leaving the half read comic in his seat. He stepped towards Hank, as did Scott. Warren didn't move, but his attention was a lot more focused.

Hank had apparently prepared himself for this level of attention. His shoulders were thrown back and his posture reminded Bobby of the human Hank, star quarterback rather than science geek. Bobby could feel reactions drilled into him more than a decade ago try and take over, waiting for the ball to come hurtling his way.

"Even if we base it on convection rates and the absorptive properties of impure ice, well," Hank spread his huge paws. "I believe the effects should be manifest by now."

"So why aren't they?" Bobby asked plaintively.

Hank tapped his claws on the table. Warren stepped forwards then, almost a blur, and went for Hank's paw. He pressed it flat on the table and glowered at Hank, who returned the look with a predatory smirk. Warren withdrew his hand quickly.

"Maybe they are," Hank said, turning to Bobby. "You do not absorb non-aqueous substances particularly well. Some of the tests we have been doing recently showed that quite definitely. I suspect the suspension has not been absorbed past the closest cells."

"So..." Bobby waved a hand. He stood in front of the mirror again, staring at the pink shadow of his digestive system. Was this it? A pink shadow?

"So," said Hank slowly, "looking at all of the available evidence, and working with current theories...That colour, dear Robert, is not the suspension at all. Those are your cells, returning to life."

"Woohooo!"


	20. part twenty

**Part Twenty**

Jean Paul wasn't there. Annie said he'd left that morning, tendered his resignation and run. Literally.

Scott was pissed. Bobby knew this, and knew it was as much about him as it was about shirking responsibilities. He appreciated that.

It had been barely a week, but Bobby was drinking the bloody suspension like... like water, and it was beginning to really show its affects. He avoided icing up as much as possible, though most people couldn't tell the difference. Like the ice, the cure was starting in the centre of his body.

Bobby wanted to be touched. He wanted to feel warm, friendly hands on him. All over him. Touched as a friend, as a colleague, as a teacher.

Touched as a lover.

Touched by someone who wouldn't even talk to him.

* * *

Bobby swung his feet over the edge of Warren's balcony, trying his hardest to keep his attention focused on his friend and failing miserably. Every time Warren asked, Bobby would rhapsodise about the feeling of air on skin, or some other completely true lies. He hadn't realised how much he missed his sense of touch until he regained it. Hank's warned him he's getting a little obsessive.

"So Paige said- You miss Jean Paul, don't you?"

Bobby blinked and frowned. He twisted around, bringing one foot up to rest on the railing and leaning his elbow on his knee, taking his time before saying anything.

"Paige said what?"

"Paige said I look better in sapphire than sky blue," Warren said, holding up a shirt and screwing his face up at it.

"Ah," said Bobby. "That's what I thought she said."

"You miss Jean Paul."

Bobby sighed and picked at his shoe lace.

"You're not good at subtle, Bobby," Warren told him, discarding the shirts and walking out to join him. "You're pining away here."

"It just..." Bobby sighed again. "If I'd held my temper just a few days longer, you know? He'd still be here, and we'd be celebrating together."

"You can celebrate with u- Oh, wait."

Bobby couldn't help but laugh, and let himself enjoy it. Warren blushed, but grinned.

"What would Paige say?" Bobby grinned, wiggling his eyebrows.

"You'd have to ask her permission first, of course," Warren teased back.

"Where can I find her?" Bobby asked, jumping off the balcony in a show of enthusiasm. Warren collapsed into peals of laughter, and Bobby slumped down as well, laughing not so much because of the bad jokes but because he could make them now.

As the laughter died out Warren beckoned Bobby over to the bed. Bobby bounced over and hopped onto the bed beside Warren, brushing the sapphire and sky blue shirts onto the floor. Warren picked them up immediately, but didn't scold Bobby.

"It's good to hear you laugh like that," Warren told him, busy with the shirts. "I was worried Jean Paul's absence would leave you crushed."

Bobby knew that his friend was using the crumpled shirts to avoid looking at him, and he was fine with it. Warren might be comfortable with Bobby's sexuality now, but he still didn't like Jean Paul and his body language was simply the result of not wanting to hurt Bobby with that fact.

"I'm not dying," Bobby told Warren's wingspan. "That... nothing's going to take that away. Sure, I'm hurting over Jean Paul, though it's not as though I can blame anyone other than myself, but it doesn't change the fact I'm not dying. I'm going to be human again."

"Are you going to look for him?" Warren's voice was carefully bland. Bobby rolled his eyes at Warren's butt.

"I don't know, Warren. I owe him an apology, at the very least. And I like to think he'd at least be interested in knowing that I'm getting better. I don't plan to hire a private detective to hunt him down or set Wolverine on his scent or anything, but if Annie happens to get his phone number I'll probably give him a call." Bobby shrugged, but it was awkward. He could hear the increasing strain in his voice, and wondered if his words sounded as fake to Warren as they did to him.

Warren sighed and turned around, leaning on the dresser. The reflection of his wings in the mirror, combined with the wings themselves, gave the impression of a bed of feathers immediately behind Warren. Bobby wanted to touch.

"He'd hang up the moment he heard your voice," Warren said, not altogether gently.

"Probably," Bobby admitted. "But I need him to know how sorry I am."

"So he'll forgive you and come running back."

Bobby squirmed.

"Admit it," Warren said. "The reason you're not cut up about it is because you haven't admitted to yourself it's over. He's not going to reappear. He's not going to be receptive to any calls or letters. He's not going to forgive you, Bobby. He's not a forgiving sort of person."

"I know," Bobby scowled. "You think I don't know?"

"You've got to let yourself hurt, Bobby," Warren soothed, coming to sit beside Bobby again and putting an arm around his shoulders. "You've got to accept that he's gone."

"I've got to accept," Bobby mimicked Warren cruelly, "that I've fucked up yet another relationship. Gee, thanks."

Warren squeezed his shoulder. "Look, you're perfectly capable of managing a relationship. You just have, well, bad taste. And you were under insane amounts of stress."

"You think?"

"If you're going to be like this," Warren said, taking his arm back and resting his hand on the bed behind him, leaning his weight on it and staring up at the ceiling, "then I don't know why I'm even bothering."

"Neither do I," Bobby said bitterly. "I wish I _had _turned to permanent ice. I wouldn't have to worry about relationships then. Do you know how many times I've done this, Warren? I don't. I just know that every single time, it was me. _I_ screwed up every single relationship. I thought maybe it would be different with a guy, but no. I can't do this. I can't do this any more. Hell, I couldn't do it in the first place."

"You're being-"

"Being what?" Bobby cut in sharply. "Ridiculous? Unrealistic? Maybe the only reason I've been clinging to these stupid fantasies about Jean Paul coming back and everything being as it was before is because otherwise I'll stop taking the damn suspension. I'll stop taking it and go to the Sahara."

Warren cuffed him, hard. Bobby slumped down on the bed.

"Idiot," Warren muttered.

Bobby nodded and curled into the coverlet, burying his face into the silken sheets and trying not to cry.

"Idiot, idiot," Warren repeated, softly this time, and affectionately. He began to run his fingers through Bobby's hair.

"Five minutes ago you were honestly happy to be on the path to recovery," Warren reminder Bobby in gentle tones. "You said it had nothing to do with Jean Paul. You've been happy for days. You can't tell me you really wish you were where you were weeks ago."

"I know," Bobby murmured.

"You'll get over him. He's not the only gay man in existence, Bobby. You'll find someone else. You're, you're how old now? Twenty six?" Warren frowned, and Bobby turned his head to stick his tongue out at him. He couldn't believe Warren had actually forgotten his age. "Sorry, six," Warren corrected. Bobby almost smiled. "Look, you're young. We're young. We've both got time to get it wrong another hundred times before we get it right. And... and getting it right will be even better, for getting it wrong so many times."

"You're just trying to dig yourself out of that hole now," Bobby accused. "We're both going to get it wrong a hundred more times, you said, and it's going to suck a hundred more times, if what you meant."

"Well, maybe," Warren shrugged awkwardly. "But that's not to say you won't get it right tomorrow."

"What if I got it right this time?" Bobby asked. "What if this was right, and I screwed it up?"

"We're not talking about soul mates here, Bobby," Warren said tersely. "I love Paige dearly, but if we're being completely honest I don't see it lasting forever. She's going to want to explore more relationships, and I'm going to have to let her go. And that's going to hurt, but I'll just have to deal with that. I'm not bailing out now so it hurts less, and I won't swear off relationships for life because of it. I'm going to enjoy the time we have together now."

"I'm not you, War," Bobby groaned. "It won't be your fault when Paige leaves. If Paige leaves. That's the difference."

"Like fuck it is," Warren snorted.

"I want him back," Bobby whispered. "You don't know how badly I want him back. He's not dead, Warren. He's not in another dimension or another part of the universe. He is precisely one phone call away, and even if I did ever work up the courage to make that call, you're right, he'd hang up on me. I want him back more than I ever wanted Polaris or Annie or Opal. But I threw him out of a window." Bobby pushed himself upright and leant over Warren, staring into his eyes. "I threw him out of a fucking window, Warren. That goes above and beyond any other fuck up I've ever made. And this is _Jean Paul Beaubier_. He's the kind of guy who'd hold a grudge for the rest of his life against someone who insulted his choice of clothes that day. He is never. ever. going to forgive me."

Warren sighed heavily, and reached up to stroke Bobby's hair away from his eyes. And it was _hair_, which caught Bobby's attention for a split second and almost distracted him to happiness again.

"I really can not understand what you see in that guy," Warren said. "Why in hell do you want to be with someone that petty, and vindictive, and stubborn?"

"I could ask Paige that," Bobby retorted.

"Ouch," Warren said dryly, unperturbed. "Look, I said I'd stop bothering you about Jean Paul, and accept it, but that was when you were still together. What are friends for if not to join in mutual bitching about exes?"

"You're camper than he ever was," Bobby observed.

"Thank you. Are you completely unable to accept emotional support?"

"Of course," Bobby said with a self-deprecating smile, finally allowing himself to be won over, a little. "What do you think all the jokes are for?"

"Dammit, you're nuts," Warren grunted, hugging Bobby tight to his chest.

"We all are," Bobby agreed, sinking into the hug and returning it fiercely.

"Next time someone rips your heart out and stamps on it and you need a hug, just ask, okay? Don't pretend you're fine just because something else has happened to you and you don't want to look ungrateful."

"I thought I was a better actor than that," Bobby admitted. "I wasn't... I wasn't lying to you guys, okay? You were kinda right, I wasn't admitting the whole truth to myself."

"I may have screwed up helping you handle the beginning of this relationship, but I'm going to get you through the end of it," Warren said, voice oddly thick, as though he was near tears. "We're nearly lost you, Bobby, and I spent most of the time, knowing you were dying, being an utter dick. That's not how you treat best friends."

"It's how I treated everyone," Bobby reminded him. "Don't think I can't relate."

Warren squeezed Bobby tightly for a moment before loosening his grip slightly. His arms remained looped around Bobby's waist as he leant back, eyes a little watery and bottom lip a little wobbly.

"You're an amazingly forgiving person, Bobby. I've been an asshole for years, and you never batted an eyelid. I screwed you up. And you're apologising to me for bottling stuff up so I wouldn't worry. The only reason it's your fault your relationships crash and burn is because you forgive faults in other people that they wouldn't forgive in you. If Jean Paul can't forgive you, then he doesn't deserve you."

Bobby listened to Warren and took a moment to think about what was being said. He ran his fingers through Warren's feathers as he thought and realised, with a little swallow of guilt, that he probably would have forgiven Jean Paul if the roles were reversed. He'd forgiven a complete betrayal of trust so easily. He'd forgiven... he'd forgiven everyone, over the years. He didn't feel like a particularly forgiving person, but maybe that wasn't the point. Maybe he did only forgive people because the other option was severing his ties with them, was walking away so they couldn't hurt him any more, because he was clingy and needy and emotionally screwed from years of rejection.

"I think... I think I need to be less forgiving," Bobby murmured into Warren's shoulder. "It's not for the right reasons and it's not doing me any good."

"Sometimes you have to cut the strings," Warren agreed.

Bobby took a deep breath and let it out, savouring the mere ability to do so. A smile tugged at his lips, a sincere one.

It's just as well this revelation came to me now, isn't it? And not, you know, a few months ago," he chuckled. "You'd be out in the cold in seconds."

Warren smiled. "I have good timing," he said.

* * *

After speaking to Warren, Bobby had felt a strange sense of closure come over him. It wasn't something he was used to after a relationship. He could admit he'd screwed up, but he could also, for possibly the first time ever, admit that he wasn't the only one. He'd spent the rest of the day thinking about forgiving, and had come to the conclusion that his problem wasn't just forgiving people for the wrong reasons: it was also being scared of being forgiven.

Robert Drake picked up the phone and dialled a number he'd had drilled into him the day before he started school for the first time. His voice still had that crystalline edge, his hand still left thick frost on the receiver, and the eyes that held his own in the mirror were transparent in every part. Different eyes, though. Eyes that had seen extremes of love and fear and hate and anger since he'd last had the courage to meet them. Eyes he smiled at even as he steeled himself for the sound of his father's voice.


	21. part twentyone

**Part Twenty-One**

Jean Paul had been expecting visitors when he moved to Montreal. Not all at once, and certainly not immediately, but he had known that sooner or later old acquaintances would appears. Most of them, he'd decided, would want to air their views on his most recent relationship implosion and his time at Xavier's, then leave him alone again.

Montreal had been very lonely for Jean Paul.

When the knock on the door finally came, Jean Paul was careful to leave enough time to suggest he was in no rush to answer it. He examined himself in the mirror by the door, trying to decide if he should appear tousled and uncaring, or immaculate and superior.

"I can smell you," Walter's voice filtered through the heavy wood. "Open the door, JP."

Jean Paul ran a hand through his hair, leaving its appearance to fate, and opened the door with as much dignity as he could still muster.

Walter had his huge arms folded as he smirked down at the speedster. Neither pleased nor displeased to see him, the expression suggested, but here because of some other force. It irritated Jean Paul immensely, especially since treacherous tendrils of relief and affection were curling through his breast.

"Have you sulked for long enough?" Walter asked without preamble. "Are you ready to rejoin the world?"

"I do not know what you mean," Jean Paul snarled, wondering what he'd done to deserve this.

Walter gave him a very serious look. "Jean Paul Beaubier, any other day I would happily sit here and watch you pout. I would love to have a few drinks with you and catch up on old times, and listen to you call the x-men all manner of names. I wish, for both our sakes, that I'd sought you out earlier, so we could do just that. I had hoped - foolish of me, I know - that perhaps you'd reach out to us this time, if you got lonely enough."

Jean Paul felt dread curdling his stomach. "It is Jeanne Marie, is it not?" he asked.

Walter nodded. "Professor Xavier called to tell me he has found her."

"Where is she?" Jean Paul asked, fingers clenched in nervous fists.

"Weapon X."

"Logan's place," Jean Paul said, recognising the name with a curl of his lip. "They have her there, do they?" He tried not to feel guilty, and managed to convert the remorse into anger with Bobby. If he had not been seduced by that abusive little snowball he would have been able to recognise his sister's pain tugging at his soul for what it was. She did not need to have suffered for so long.

"Don't rush off," Walter said, placing a heavy hand on his friend's shoulder. "Don't move until I've finished."

Jean Paul took a deep breath and blew it out impatiently. "I can put up with Xavier's puppets," he muttered, "for as long as it takes to rescue her."

"She doesn't need rescuing, JP," Walter told him.

Jean Paul's head snapped up, eyes wide. "They have freed her already? Why was I not informed? Why was I not part of it?"

"She's still there."

Walter ground his teeth in frustration. Using the hand still firmly encasing Jean Paul's slender shoulder, he steered the other man to a designer leather couch centred in the room. Jean Paul let himself be forced to sit, though he resisted enough to tell Walter he only sat because he wanted to, not because Walter had any say in the matter. It was enough to drive a sasquatch mad. Everything had to be a battle of wills with JP. Everything had to be a competition. No wonder all of his relationships fell apart. He knew this was important, and he still had to assert himself in myriad petty ways.

"Jean Paul, she's been brainwashed. They've taken advantage of her personality disorder, and created a personality that _wants_ to be there. That's on their side."

That took the wind out of Jean Paul's sales.

"Xavier is putting together a team to extract one of his own. What was the name? Chamber, I think."

"Jono?" Jean Paul murmured. "He did not deserve to get mixed up in that. Xavier paying us for fools again, setting up fights, I suspect."

"Logan will be on the team, and some names I didn't recognise. He's asked any of Alpha Flight who knew JM well to help." Walter waited for a reaction, and failed to get one. "Iceman won't be on the team," he informed Jean Paul, "but no doubt there'll be some present who know about your history with him. It will probably be rather uncomfortable."

"We are talking about my sister," Jean Paul said frostily. "The team could be composed solely of men I have fucked and been fucked over by, and I would not give a shit. I do not understand why you are even bothering to tell me these things. I shall pack. We shall leave."

Before Walter could react Jean Paul was standing next to him, a bag slung over one shoulder, dressed in the old black and white uniform he had once matched his sister in.

* * *

Bobby had heard about the mission to Weapon X, and had had it very politely explained why he was not invited. It had been some months since he last saw Jean Paul, and despite everything his stomach burbled excitedly over the prospect of catching a glimpse of his ex-lover, even it was just out of a window.

He really hoped the mission was successful. He didn't really know Jeanne-Marie, but he wanted her safe for Jean Paul's sake, and Jono had always been a likeable young man if you could get past the angst. Plus, this wasn't going to be fun for Logan, who'd been good to him in the past few months. Kurt would be there to keep the peace, a job Bobby didn't envy him at all. Alpha Flight had donated a few members too, past and present. Sasquatch was one of the few names Bobby recognised, and he had some niggling memory that he might have been romantically involved with Jeanne Marie at some point. Poor guy.

He could think about a whole variety of people on that mission, and feel bad for each one of them (well, except Alex), but it still didn't take up enough of the day to stop thinking about Jean Paul. It was getting particularly embarrassing during lessons.

Bobby was waiting for his first set of students to file in, tilting back on his chair, one foot on the desk to keep him rocking, when he noticed a folded piece of paper. He tried to hook it with his foot, slipped on the shiny surface of the desk and very almost injured himself in a very nasty way, one leg on top of the desk, one leg under. Thank god for those gymnastic lessons Jubilee had been giving him.

It was the first report from the mission. Neat handwriting, no swear words, familiar ending. Alex, Bobby guessed. Very similar writing to his brother, which amused Bobby.

_So far, luck has not been on our side. Most of our efforts are going towards keeping Northstar from charging headlong into the facility, despite several attempts to explain to him why this would not be wise. Chamber has reported back on several conversations he has had with Aurora, and has found that she has no inclination to leave. However, he may have found a secret entrance that should come in handy at a later date. It is still undecided as to whether we shall storm the facility and free all of the test subjects, willing or not, or simply try to extract Aurora. _

A few days later, Bobby caught Cyclops in the act of leaving the mission report for him. It warmed the iceman's heart, and he pounced on Scott, trapping him in a hug from behind. Scott blushed, and relaxed. Bobby reminded himself to grab Warren and Hank at some point soon and work out a night they could all go out together, old times' sake.

_Thus far, Chamber has located two secret entrances, along with several others that are poorly guarded. This facility has obviously been built with a hasty evacuation in mind. I am now leaning towards an all out assault on the facility, though to do that we shall need more back up. Chamber has scanned the minds several of the subjects, and believes some of them would be willing to help us, which makes this plan more reasonable. And, I think you'll agree with me, we would be failing to do our duty should we leave those wretches behind. _

Warren and Hank, accompanied by Paige and Jubilee, went to join the team already at the secret base, which meant Bobby didn't get a chance to organise the meal he'd been hoping for. After some thought, he'd decided to convince Scott to come out just with him. Emma's teasing laughter had echoed through his head almost until they reached the bookcafe. Bobby didn't mind, and sent her some pretty mental images to liven up her day.

Scott called Bobby straight into his office when the next report came. Hank had written it, which made it infinitely more entertaining for Bobby, once he'd established nothing had gone too badly wrong.

_As I write, we are currently in preparation for an assault on the nefarious compound. Our companions from Alpha Flight have proved a great boon, boosting our numbers as they have. We have selected three entrances for penetration by our willing and able troops, and five are to be held in a defensive strategy. Two we intend to leave unguarded, partially because our leader believes they shall go forgotten, and partially in case we find ourselves desirous of an egress of our own. Our dear Albian acquaintance intends to unfasten the containment chambers immediately prior to the beginning of our endeavour, and with the aid of your young Marvel Girl together they shall disable as many of the telepaths in the area as possible. If all goes favourably Northstar shall return to the institute while we are still in the first stages of the assault, bearing his sister for the immediate salvation only our esteemed professor could provide. _

_Tell Bobby it's all going well, we intend to attack tonight, and he should see Jean Paul and his sister before tomorrow. _

_All the best,_

_Hank_

Bobby had some doubts about that last part. The Jean Paul part, not the all the best part. The condescension was teasing, and it made Bobby warm to think Hank had thought of him.

There was no final mission report. Or rather, if there was, Alex delivered it by mouth. Bobby was excluded from that particular meeting, but Hank was happy to explain the situation to him while he helped Annie tend to various injuries the others had sustained. No one was dead, or, at least, no one Bobby knew personally, which made him feel like a terrible person for think that way. Warren was in a horribly foul mood since Paige had ditched him for Jono again, though when she'd had time Bobby couldn't imagine. Wolverine had disappeared, but had left a message with Hank to say he'd come back in his own time, and don't come looking. Kurt had lost the tip of his tail, Jubilee had a bad concussion, Rachel had a migraine only a telepath could appreciate (which was why Jono was spending a few days in a hotel in town) and Alpha Flight were taking care of their own back in Canada.

No one had seen Jean Paul since he'd taken Jeanne Marie. Bobby smiled quietly to himself, and wondered why everyone else looked surprised.


	22. part twentytwo

**Part Twenty-two**

_A/N: The CD in the coffee shop is Sandi Thom's new album "Smile... It Confuses People"._ _I haven't stopped listening to it since I bought it. It seemed like as good a talking point as any. (and hey, look, two updates within a reasonable space of time!)  
_

Bobby's smugness was replaced by surprise of his own when Jean Paul was seen walking the corridors of the Xavier Institute not too many weeks later, minus his sister, sane or not, but with the addition of this teaching place having been reinstated.

If Logan had been there, Bobby would have asked him what was going. The problem was Wolverine was still missing. Bobby was pretty certain that made him the closest person to Northstar now, despite their differences. That meant he had to swallow his nerves and ask for himself. It wasn't just curiosity that drove him, though. He knew Jean Paul, knew that he wouldn't talk without a hell of a lot of prompting, no matter how badly he needed to.

Tracking Jean Paul down outside of lessons was a hard task. Asking himself "where would I be?" didn't help, because that invariably led to the freezer, where Bobby was pretty certain Jean Paul wasn't. Of course, asking himself "where would I be if I was a flying speedster" didn't help much either, because he'd be both flying and a long way away. It was hard not to wish he could fly sometimes.

He set up camp in the kitchen at five o'clock one morning. It was not the best plan, he admitted to himself as he yawned over a cup of coffee. If Jean Paul walked in soon it would still be too early for Bobby to form a coherent sentence. He might not even recognise Jean Paul.

The blur wouldn't have registered on Bobby's pre-dawn radar, but the wake made his coffee slop on the piece of paper he'd brought with him. His little speech, knowing that he wouldn't be capable of conversation. All black and soggy now.

"Hey," Bobby said.

The blur passed the fridge, paused opposite him almost long enough to congeal, and started moving again.

"Hey!" Bobby said again. "You could at least make me another cup of coffee. It's six AM here."

"As opposed to in England, where it is mid morning?"

Bobby had hoped that Jean Paul's anger might have eased by now. He hunched over the remains of his drink, and tried not to lose hope. Had their friendship solely been a prelude to their relationship? Had they no common ground, nothing to talk about, no faith in each other?

Another cup of coffee appeared before him. Creamy and full of sugar. Bobby bit his lip. The remains of the black coffee, twice as sugary but still too bitter for Bobby's taste, disappeared and he could hear it draining down the sink.

"I got up to talk to you," Bobby said, making certain there was no animosity in his voice. "I'm worried about you."

"Did it not occur to you, Robert, that you might not be the person I desire to talk to?" Jean Paul was moving at a more normal pace now, drinking his own coffee and leaning on a counter, waiting for his toast to finish under the grill. He'd already had two bowls of cereal, Bobby knew.

"I know," Bobby admitted, "but I didn't think there'd be anyone else, either. Not til Logan comes back, anyway, and if I don't push you no one will." He looked up at Jean Paul through bleary eyes. He took a drink from his mug, smiled at the perfect taste, and licked cream from his top lip before saying, "And I think you want pushing, just a little."

"You think you know me so well," Jean Paul snorted.

"I kinda hope so, sometimes. After everything." Bobby took another swallow of coffee. "I'd like to be friends, or at least nodding acquaintances. I mean, it's _possible_ to avoid someone in the place for weeks on end, but it's a lot of effort. And people give you strange looks when they see you hanging by your fingertips from a window, just because you thought you heard the other person coming."

"I can picture that," Jean Paul said, with something that might have been a smile.

"I know sorry wasn't enough, and still isn't," Bobby sighed. "I don't care if you don't forgive me, not any more. I'm just worried for you right now."

"As a team mate?" Jean Paul raised an eyebrow.

"As someone I used to be very close to," Bobby snapped. "Someone I loved. I'd at least like to be able to say as a friend, but if you're determined that it won't be so, then I guess 'as an ex' will just have to do."

Jean Paul was silent for some time, staring at his own coffee. His toast began to burn. He pulled it out from the grill and threw it into the trash in one fluid movement. Occasionally emotions flickered across his face too fast for Bobby to discern. He seemed to be stuck in permanent frown.

Jean Paul put his coffee on the table and swung into the seat opposite Bobby. He took a drink, and asked, "How are you now?"

"Healthy. Cured," Bobby said guardedly.

"That is good," Jean Paul said, speaking to his coffee. "I am glad. I... I would not have wanted something to have happened to you." He grimaced, and Bobby saw his face take on a more determined expression as he straightened his shoulders and sat up straight. "I still care for you," Jean Paul spoke stiffly, "as you put it, 'as an ex'. Your welfare concerns me, and I suppose I can not blame you for feeling concern for mine."

Bobby watched Jean Paul drum his fingers on the table top. The man had taken a deep breath; he was preparing for a longer speech.

"Jeanne Marie did not care for my attentions. She fought me very hard," Jean Paul said slowly. "She is an entirely different person, once again. I love her, all of her, but the new her has no such feeling for me. She attacked me, knocked me out, and escaped. I had her traced. She was living in Westchester. I feared she was planning to attack you, having read from me who you were to me. She is currently in a mental institution."

"Near here, right?" Bobby said. "That's why you're here again, so you can be close to her."

"Oui." Jean Paul smiled what had to be a forced smile. "You have your explanation now. No soothing platitudes or sympathy? Or is your curiosity merely sated, and you are done with me again?"

"I do not get up at five in the morning to sate my curiosity, no matter how strong it may be," Bobby told him. "I'm pretty sure you know that, too. I didn't say anything because, well, what could I say? That she's better off with professionals than with you?" Jean Paul jerked at those words, face screwing up into a snarl, but Bobby kept talking. "No matter how much you love her, it's true. Sometimes you can't personally help the people you love, they only hurt you for trying. I thought I'd already taught you that." The bitterness was obvious, but Bobby hoped the truth would get through as well.

"My sister has also physically assaulted me, so perhaps I should have recognised the parallels," Jean Paul bit out. He got to his feet, abandoning his coffee. "Thank you for your advice. I feel _very _much better for having talked to you."

Bobby stuck his tongue out at the sarcasm as soon as Jean Paul's back was turned, and felt a little better for it. At least he'd got Jean Paul to talk about it, even if he'd possibly sacrificed any chance they'd had of being friends again.

* * *

Jean Paul hovered through the hallway, aware that if he were to walk his anger would lead to stamping. His pride couldn't have borne the teasing that would have led to. As he flew, he clenched and unclenched his fists, glad that the corridors were deserted at this time of the morning.

He had been advised not to visit his sister. It caused too much emotional distress. She was delicate right now. Plus, the damaged she caused to the walls, furniture and unfortunate members of staff every time he got close to her was rather expensive.

It was tempting to acquiesce to Professor Xavier's request that he be allowed to examine her mind. At the very least, a telepath might persuade her to switch personalities long enough to actually welcome Jean Paul. He needed to hear her voice so much, the strong Quebecan accent and soft, warm words. He could bring tears to his eyes imagining it.

Maybe he should ask Jono. He was younger, blunter, more trustworthy than the Professor. A pity he was still hanging off that blonde girl. He was probably an interesting fuck, too, Jean Paul thought cruelly. Wonderful derriere in those tight ripped jeans, and the dark and angsty thing worked for him. Wouldn't Bobby just be spitting jealousy, if he happened to walk past a room one day, and caught a glimpse? Had that heavily accented telepathy jar his thoughts, begging Jean Paul for more, for 'arder, for a bloody good shag.

Jean Paul almost laughed at his own stereotyping, and let the fantasy Jono go on his way, descending to walk on the carpet as he did so. The boy was still remarkably attractive, but he deserved better than being used as a tool to hurt Bobby. Maybe if he fell out with Paige again, Jean Paul might be there to comfort him. A little rebound relationship to help him smooth out his emotions again.

He couldn't believe Bobby had been so harsh. To convince him into revealing what had happened, and then to spit it back in his face. Of course his sister was better off with him. She was his sister. He loved her more than anyone else could. They were the only family each other had. What could those complete strangers, those over paid professionals, those highly trained and very experienced doctors do that he couldn't?

It made him furious to admit that Bobby was right. He refused to see the parallels, though; Jeanne Marie's was a mental disease, Bobby's had been physical. He had made no attempt to cure Bobby, merely to support him. And where had that support gotten him? The lawn, if he remembered correctly. He stepped into his classroom, slamming the door behind him and not caring. There was no one asleep in this part of the school he might wake up, who might come and bother him.

Returning to the Institute had been one of the hardest decisions Jean Paul had ever had to make. There had been no need for him to return. He could certainly afford a hotel, maybe even to rent somewhere. He had half an idea for a second book. He could have occupied his time well enough. He could have been close enough to feel Jeanne Marie, even if he couldn't visit her. There was too much mental static in this place.

But it had been upsettingly easy to come back here after the decision had been so hard. He enjoyed teaching. People knew him here. He had had students come up to him and welcome him back. He had had smiles and pats on the backs from colleagues. Friends. He even had an ex-boyfriend still caring enough about him to get up at five in the morning, which Jean Paul had to acknowledge even if he hadn't liked the way Bobby handled it.

He'd come here because he knew he couldn't handle Jeanne Marie's breakdown on his own. He still didn't intend to make it public knowledge, but just being here was having a positive effect. He didn't like to imagine the person he might have been had he locked himself away from the world. Even at his most antisocial, he had socialised. Gone out, got drunk, slept with strange men. He could live entirely on his own, avoid everyone who knew his real name or whose real name he knew, but he would still seek out others for a few short hours each night.

As he settled behind his desk, he contemplated the painful irony, the really frustrating irony; he'd put himself in precisely the opposite position. Jean Paul highly doubted he'd be having much sex for some time to come. Bobby was right, they could avoid each other if they put a lot of effort in, but Jean Paul wasn't going to surrender that easily. So what if Bobby was human in appearance again? Wandering around in tighter t-shirts and baggier pants, tantalising glimpses of skin between top and trousers, between the buttonholes in his shirts. Jean Paul could out do him. Jean Paul could outdo them all. He was thankful for the large proportion of his fortune he'd spent on moving to Montreal. His wardrobe was at its best. He'd made very good use of that very expensive gym membership. His hair was cut just perfectly. He had a very expensive new car, though it did leave him wondering what to do with the old one Bobby had liked so much.

He mentally obliterated that thought. Shredded it. Deleted it. He wanted nothing to do with its existence.

Confidence could be bought, this Jean Paul knew, but overconfidence never got you anywhere good. He might be able to make Bobby beg to have him back, if he put the effort in, but the temptation to say yes might also get the better of him. Better to accept that he probably wasn't going to get laid for some time to come, and that he was going to have to learn to live with Bobby.

If Bobby started dating, Jean Paul might just have to kill someone, maybe Bobby, maybe the lover, maybe himself.

His first class of the day began to wander in, proving Jean Paul with a welcome distraction.

* * *

He was doing it just to upset him, Bobby was sure of it. No man spent that much money on clothes unless he was out to impress someone, even Jean Paul. Sleek black trousers, just enough shiny to show the patterns of his muscles. Tight white shirt with light blue trim, thin enough for Bobby to see his nipples. Hair artfully drawn back to display a tantalising glimpse of one pointed ear. Sunglasses. Indoors.

He was talking to Annie leaning over the lunch table and making her laugh. He was smiling a little himself. Bobby hoped he'd helped in that, but wasn't sure. He'd forgotten that Jean Paul and Annie had been so close.

At least it was Annie, he comforted himself. At least Jean Paul wasn't flirting. He wasn't sure what he'd do if Jean Paul found someone else. He could picture Jean Paul and Gambit, all long legs and French accents and tangy sweat dark sheets smokey air expensive whiskies

"Bobby?"

"Oui?" Bobby jerked out of his reveries, brain catching up with his mouth just seconds too late, producing a most magnificent blush.

"Oh dear," Warren smirked. "Oh dear, oh dear."

Bobby scowled. "I can think about him, okay? I'm not stupid enough to think he'll ever actually forgive me."

"You were looking at Remy," Warren informed him.

"Oh... oh dear," Bobby said, and laughed quietly. "Well, why shouldn't I?" he added thoughtfully.

"I don't think Rogue would approve," Warren said, gesturing to the girl who, once again, was Remy's beau of choice. Bobby grinned and leant back in his chair.

"Maybe not," he admitted, "but hey, everyone seems to think we had a thing ourselves, so you never know." He shrugged and winked.

"That's a thought," Warren said, "your father called this morning. Wants to know if you'll be over for Thanksgiving, or whether you'll just wait for Christmas."

Bobby thought it over for a moment. "I suppose I should go," he said reluctantly, "but I'd rather avoid the rest of the relations. God knows my parents tried to keep who I am a secret long enough. Some of my cousins are still pretty horrified, and I've a great aunt who refuses to admit I exist any more, and I know mum will invite her, because she's family and it's Thanksgiving." He sighed. "Christmas is a long way off, though."

"You could drop by before Thanksgiving," Warren suggested. "Say hello to your folks, spend the day, and then come back here. The staff always manage a huge meal."

"I do love Kathy's cranberry sauce," Bobby mused. "It's not a bad idea at all, bird brain, not at all bad. I'm sure they'd appreciate a weekend of pure, unadulterated me."

"I'd appreciate a weekend of pure, unadulterated absence of you," Warren said.

"You just want me adulterated," Bobby teased. "You want to adulterate me all through the night."

There was a pause.

"I have no clue what you just said," Warren told him. "None at all. Go back to ogling your French speakers, and leave me out of it."

* * *

Rumour got out about Jeanne Marie. The general response was sympathetic, but not smotheringly so. It was oddly pleasant.

He'd gone out with Annie a few times, to the places Alex wasn't interested in. He'd gone out with Beast, to see the all male cast of Hamlet. He'd gone clubbing, once with Annie, once alone. He'd almost gone home with a young man who looked too much like Bobby. He'd gone out with Walter when the other man had come to see Jeanne Marie.

Jeanne Marie acknowledged their relationship. She still loathed him, but she admitted he was her brother. He was allowed to see her for half an hour a week, under observation. One of the doctors had tried to ask him out.

Julian had knuckled under, for a bit, and produced some work that had got Jean Paul genuinely excited. The boy could do it, do it well and do it easily. He just needed persuading that it was worth it. Teaching _was_ rewarding.

Bobby had bought his old car from him. He had given it to Jubilee as an eighteenth birthday present, repainted bright yellow with smiley faces and flowers on it. It looked hideous, but she had been thrilled.

Bobby had had highlights put into his hair. It both did and didn't suit him.

Bobby was still single, and looked to be staying that way.

It was hard not to think of Bobby, when they saw each other so often. They were the default cover for each other's classes, they shared a passion for ice hockey and other winter sports (Bobby had made him watch Cool Runnings twice while they were dating and once again since), they had several mutual friends, they both favoured one coffee shop over all of the others.

Jean Paul saw him and smiled without thinking. Bobby grinned and waved. Jean Paul looked around, too fast for most people to see, and made a decision. The only free tables were designed to seat eight. Bobby was alone, his coffee almost finished and his cream bun reduced to a smear on the plate.

And a little on his nose, which almost caused Jean Paul to turn around and walk out. His heart was thudding painfully loud as he sat opposite Bobby.

"You have something on your nose," he informed Bobby crisply, hoping he wasn't speaking too fast.

Bobby rubbed his nose on his sleeve, ridding himself of the tempting white splodge. Jean Paul relaxed.

Bobby jerked his head towards the sound system. "Paige has this CD. It's not meant to be available over here yet."

"A gift from Jono," Jean Paul said, "and a sign of good taste here."

"It's pretty good," Bobby agreed. "Easy on the ear."

"There were webcasts, I have been told," Jean Paul said with a shrug. "Jono surprised me."

Bobby laughed. "Yeah, it's not his kinda thing, but I guess he's making an effort for Paige. Either that or he knows this Sandi chick." He took a sip from his coffee, just avoiding finishing it. "I hear you're taking him on as a TA," he said.

"Oui," Jean Paul nodded. "He has been looking for something to do. I do not know him well, but we have got on tolerably well. I think he might make an impression on certain members of the class."

"Like his girlfriend's baby brother?" Bobby grinned. "Either that or you're going to have war breaking out."

"They're both musical," Jean Paul said, "maybe they will find they have that in common."

"You mean he'll run off with mini-Angel and we'll have to deal with a furious Paige and baffled Sam for the next few months?" Bobby said.

It was an easy conversation, friendly but not painful. Like most these days. As Bobby finished his coffee and took his leave, Jean Paul admitted to himself that though he still found Bobby very attractive (he watched Bobby leave, in those tight, ripped, jeans, with a self indulgent smile) the friendship they had formed once could be resurrected. The wounds were healing, slowly. Bobby was moving on, and even if Jean Paul found it so much harder, he could keep his mouth shut and his head down and fix that smile in place.

He'd spent so much of his life hiding who he was in some form or another. It was easy to smother and shield his feelings, even if he felt like a traitor to himself for doing so. As the anger faded from his relationship with Bobby, there was nothing to stop the old feelings from surfacing except pure force of will. He could resent Bobby for making him do this to himself, but that was just another way of repressing the feelings. There was no difference between hiding his feelings now and when he hid them because he thought Bobby was straight. Really. Honestly.

At least Bobby didn't seem to feel the same way.


	23. part twentythree

**Part Twenty-Three**

_A/N: Jono, of course, having come back from Mutant X is possessed of a mouth. Hence the talking and the eating. He really likes being able to eat again._

Bobby stared at the turkey in front of him with some trepidation. Warren smirked at him.

"Parents fed you?" he asked.

"So much," Bobby admitted. "So, so much."

"I told you to go sooner," Warren shrugged, stealing a turkey leg from Bobby's overheaped plate. "Neither Man nor Mutant is built for two huge turkey dinners in as many days."

Bobby took his turkey leg back. "I am," he said. "I so am."

Warren cocked an eyebrow. "Hang out with any younger cousins while you were at home?"

"Yeah, how'd you, like, know?"

* * *

Jean Paul poked at his cranberry sauce with an expression of distaste, keeping half an eye on Bobby's antics while pretending to himself he wasn't. Jono sat opposite him with a sigh and a smirk. 

"Gotta stick together," he said.

Jean Paul laughed and smiled at him. "I most definitely agree."

"Don't doubt Kurt'll be joining us," Jono said, starting to cut up the turkey. Jean Paul remembered that the boy had little need to eat, but his plate was piled fairly high regardless. "S'weird," the English boy went on, "I keep looking for brussel sprouts."

"Do _not_ tell me you actually like them," Jean Paul grinned, shaking his head.

Jono pulled a face. "Hell no. But they're meant to be there all the same. I mean, they're brussel sprouts. Yer gotta have 'em to make you feel like yer deserve yer pudding." He paused. "What is fer pudding?"

"Pie," Jean Paul said dryly. "Many and various types of _pie_."

Jono chuckled. "Yer say pie, I immediately think meat and gravy. Think I'll skip it."

"I do not mind the dinner so much," Jean Paul said, "but it feels like the wrong day to me."

"Yeah, well," Jono shrugged, mouth full. He swallowed, Adam's Apple bobbing. "_I _missed Guy Fawkes' night." He pouted, anarchy in his eyes. He seemed to have taken to Jean Paul as strongly as Jean Paul had taken to him, freer with him than other acquaintances, sharing the same dry sense of humour and just occasionally, flirting with him a little. At least, Jean Paul was fairly certain that was what the younger man was doing, though he behaved differently around Paige. He wondered if Jono feared Paige's disapproval.

Jean Paul glanced over to where the students were sitting, and started to tap his knife on the table in thought. Jono continued to eat, turning his nose up at the sweet potatoes and devouring the stuffing with relish. Jean Paul's dinner began to get cold.

"What would you say to a school trip?" Jean Paul asked.

"School or class?" Jono asked, shovelling mashed potatoes onto his fork.

"Class," Jean Paul acknowledged. "Into the city." He leant his chin on his fist, and stared across the room.

Jono nodded thoughtfully as he chewed. "Yeah," he said, "I'm up for that. Just our lot, or yer thinking of dragging someone else's classes into this?" He turned his head to follow Jean Paul's gaze, and Jean Paul realised with a faint horror that he had been staring at Bobby again.

"Maybe," Jean Paul admitted. "It will not be worth it unless we fill a whole coach anyway."

"What sorta teacher-student ratio do we need?" Jono asked.

"One to seven, I believe," Jean Paul replied. "If we were to include Bobby's class, we would need one more 'adult', I believe."

"I thought he had more students than that," Jono said, frowning.

"Yes, but there is some overlap."

"Oh, of course." Jono started to mop up with gravy with his remaining turkey, and asked, "Do you want me to ask Bobby now?"

"Can y-" Jean Paul checked himself. Just because Jono wasn't confined to telepathy didn't mean he couldn't still use it. "S'il vous plait," he said.

* * *

Bobby froze, fork halfway to his open mouth. His eyes crossed. 

Warren leant back in his chair and watched him, waiting to see whether he should be amused or concerned. Scott, who had joined them, bent forwards and frowned.

Bobby blinked, and put his fork in his mouth, gravy dripping down his chin.

"Well?" Scott asked.

"Jean Paul wants to know if we want to organise some sort of educational trip," Bobby shrugged. "At least, that's what I think Jono said. Is it just me, or is his accent actually getting _thicker_?"

"Where?" Scott had the look he wore when he was at his most headmasterish, which made Warren and Bobby share an amused look.

"In the city. Either Jean Paul isn't sure where, or Jono doesn't know enough about New York to have any clue where he was talking about," Bobby smiled. "Just a day trip, an end of semester treat."

"How many students?" Scott asked.

Bobby's eyes rolled upwards as he counted, lips moving. Warren snorted, and Bobby's faced creased up as he failed to keep up the pretence.

"Twenty six," he said. "I've got twelve, Jean Paul's got eighteen. Four student overlap."

"You might get away with three members of staff, but since Jono's still young and inexperienced, I'd rather there were four of your there." Scott's mouth twitched, and he added, "Sorry, did I say Jono? I meant you."

Bobby stuck his tongue out at Scott. "Sure you did. Hey, can I have a TA? I promise I'd house train it, and look after it ever so well."

"You were deprived of a dog as a child, weren't you?" Warren asked wryly.

"You don't need a TA, Bobby," Scott sighed. "You haven't even got any troublemakers in your class."

Bobby grinned and shrugged. "So, any suggestions for a fourth?"

"I'd really rather know where you're planning to go before I agree to anything," Scott said. "And I don't want to find myself in a week's time plagued with thirty different requests for trips, all hoping for subsidising. We don't have the money to spare."

"Yeah we do," Bobby argued, a frown beginning to form between his eyes. "We should be several thousand dollars under budget this semester. It's in the rebuilding fund. The school is, in fact, intact."

"We have a specific fund for when people destroy this place?" Warren raised his eyebrows.

"You should see the yearly budgets," Bobby said. "There's money going all over the place, in event of regularly occurring emergencies. We can afford to put everyone in the school - I mean _everyone_, we're talking right down to the dinner ladies here - in a hotel for up to six weeks. A nice hotel, too. That doesn't actually get touched that often, oddly enough. Oh, and we can afford to replace approximately half of our vehicles should something take them all out at once."

Scott stared at Bobby, eyes wide. "Where did we get all this money?" he asked. "Why don't I know about it?"

"Most of it's not to be touched until required," Bobby shrugged. "Some of the more obscure eventualities have been building up interested for over a decade now. Most of the rest comes from investments and stocks. We've still got quite a few companies, and even individuals, that donate money on a regular basis." He nodded his head at Warren. "I bet feathers doesn't even know how much he's giving us annually any more."

Warren shrugged and frowned. "Just don't tell Jean Paul that."

"How about Remy?" Bobby suggested. "He's been floating around, stuck for something to do."

"As a fourth, or as a TA?" Scott asked.

"I was thinking fourth," Bobby admitted. "Is he still blind?"

Scott nodded. "But I think he's a good choice regardless. I'm not too concerned about the students getting the better of you, and to be honest in the event of an attack between you, Jean Paul and Jono you've got enough fire power to deal with most problems."

"He won't take kindly to being asked just out of pity," Warren said.

"The kids love him. He's _cool_," Bobby said with a dismissive wave. "If it's just about making up numbers, he's perfect. Plus, he and Jean Paul can speak patty French at each other."

"Patois, Bobby."

* * *

Bobby wasn't quite sure how he (or maybe Jean Paul, or Jono, or even Remy, who knew?) had talked Scott into letting them get away with a whole weekend's worth of trip. How they'd ended up in DC instead of New York. How he'd gone from sharing a room with Remy to sharing a room with Jean Paul, listening through the wall to Jono and Remy have very enthusiastic sex. 

"It was almost inevitable," he said, thinking out loud as much as making small talk.

Jean Paul snorted, and nodded. He was reading a French book. The only word in the title that Bobby could translate was 'le'.

"They're both too pretty to be with any one else," Bobby sighed. "Easily the two most attractive men at the institute."

He realised what he'd said, and blushed. Jean Paul did not look up.

"I mean, two of three," Bobby mumbled. "Of three. If you were in there it would be... oh god."

He slumped over the desk. He was mortified, but he was also turned on. Which was mortifying. Jean Paul in there too. Like Jean Paul and Remy hadn't been a favourite fantasy for weeks now. And Jono.

He was not leaving this desk. Ever.

"Of four."

"What?" Bobby twisted in his seat, hoping the chair was sufficiently tucked under the desk that he wouldn't embarrass himself.

"Two of the four most attractive men," Jean Paul elaborated.

"Oh." Bobby turned back to the desk. He knew he was blushing. With a sigh, he let his head drop to the cool veneer, and wished it would all just go away.

He was right there. Right there. A couple of yards. The ex he had almost killed. He ex he couldn't get over. Right there, in a pair of silk pyjamas. Navy blue. A size too small, chosen deliberately. The top three buttons undone. Ankles crossed, feet bare. Leaning against the pillows. White cream against the navy blue, soft, bulging around his slim back. The fold of a white sheet beneath his butt. Silk stretched tight across his hips. Light blue fleece covers. Like he'd chosen the pyjamas to match the bed. French book so carefully balanced, held just so.

Bobby risked a quick glance around. Jean Paul was turning the pages as though he was counting them, rather than reading. Very carefully held. The pages snagging occasionally. Brief winces, every now and then. Pages being turned carefully, bent a little.

Oh god.

- Ooooh, fuck -

Oh fuck.

Jean Paul's shoulders twitched and he raised his head. Caught Bobby looking. Too late to look away, Bobby forced a smile.

"We could go to the bar," he suggested.

"I would not say I am dressed for it," Jean Paul said dryly.

- Fuck, I love having a mouth. -

Bobby blinked.

"I believed Jono might enjoy fellatio," Jean Paul said. "I have noticed something of an oral fixation with that boy."

Bobby groaned and pressed his head into the desk again.

"You're not helping either," he said.

"I am sorry. What would you rather I did?"

Come here, Bobby thought. That's all. You can stay cold and angry. You can keep hating me for what I did to you. Just come here.

"Why didn't you fuck him then?" Bobby asked, voice hoarse. "He was there."

"I will not deign to answer that." The 'that' was spat. Bobby heard Jean Paul slam the book down, and the sound of covers moving.

"That's probably a good thing," he said softly. "Sorry."

"So... so am I. I am aware that you are finding this as hard as I am. I should not have deliberately aggravated you."

"I am never talking to either of them again," Bobby announced. He sat up, peeling hotel-monogrammed notepaper from his head.

"I would agree, but that might make my classes a little difficult," Jean Paul said.

Bobby turned to look at him. Tucked up in bed. Like all of the students ought to be, though he heard the occasional giggle and running footsteps past the door. It was late.

The bathroom. He should go to the bathroom. Jerk off, change, sleep. Easy.

Jean Paul sighed heavily. "I know what you want, Bobby. I want the same. But we can not."

Bobby laughed, a high, hysterical giggle. "You're no good for denial, you know," he said. "Can't we pretend that at least one of us isn't interested?"

"It will not be me," Jean Paul said. He was smiling slightly. "I refuse to refuse to acknowledge my desires."

"You what?"

"I will not pretend I do not feel what I feel," Jean Paul said. "I grew tired of that years ago."

"Yeah, well, I only quit recently. I'm due for a relapse any day now. So, well. I'm not thinking about jumping your bones. At all."

And it was true, on some level. He just wanted to be close to him. Climb into the bed. It would almost certainly result in sex, but it wouldn't end there. They would be lying together. Warm. Touching. Talking.

"So you will stand up at some point soon then?"

"Fuck you," Bobby said, with no real malice. "I'm going to sleep in the bath."


	24. part twentyfour

**Part Twenty Four**

_A/N: Timeline fudging! I don't know much about the arc in which Angel meets the Guthrie's, apart from the fact that he and Paige have sex in front of her mother. Imagine that this never happened. There, don't you feel better?_

_Oh, and apparently Paige and Jono split up off screen. Possibly, may never have gone out in the first place (I will be editing this one day, tidy it up for typos and britishisms and some of the worse plot detours). Also, warning for Google French._

_ This would have been up here earlier, but FFN wasn't playing nice._

I keep saying we're close to the end, but we're about two chapters away now, and if I finish Yuletide on time, I might round this off so the Christmas's coincide. **Might**. Possibly just after, since I'll be internet deprived when I'm at home. But soon. If you don't let me forget.  


Of course he was going home for Christmas. Even when it was really bad, he went home for Christmas. Well, Christmas Eve, at least. Just for a few hours.

This year, it wasn't bad. He and his father were on friendly terms. They still bickered, but Thanksgiving had reminded Bobby of how good it used to be. How he was still his father's son.

He hadn't come out to his parents yet, of course.

He saw that as more sort of a post-Christmas thing. Maybe a just before he left thing. Or an over the phone thing once familial duties were discharged.

"So what's the plan?" Warren asked him.

"Go home Christmas Eve – ice slide, of course, wouldn't want to brave _that_ traffic – spend the day, and come back in time for New Year's Eve. I figure I'll leave how long I stay open this year. It's nice to be able to." Bobby smiled, sipping his coffee. "What about you?"

"I'm meeting Paige's family."

Bobby burst out laughing. Warren sounded so apprehensive. He glowered at Bobby, which only made him laugh harder.

"Come on," he wheezed. "Sam's the nicest guy you'll ever meet. And she's got a couple of siblings here already too. That kid with the wings. Prettier wings than you." He grinned. "What, scared they'll be expecting Jono still?"

Warren gave him the finger. He sighed, smiled weakly, and sat back in his chair.

"It sounds like almost everyone's going somewhere this year," he observed. "Not like it used to be."

"Scott'll still be here," Bobby pointed out.

"And Emma."

"True."

The door behind Warren opened, and he twisted to see who it was. Jean Paul walked in. He was wearing a scarf, a small concession to the weather, and looked unhappy. His eyes met Warren's, and there was a blur. He was gone.

"…Right." Bobby bit his lip. "Any guesses?"

"You know him better." Warren raised his hands. "Where has he been?"

"Probably visiting his sister," Bobby realised. "Shit. I guess it's up to me to go and talk to him."

"No." Warren reached out and laid a hand on Bobby's arm. "Look, Bobby, you can't keep this up. It's over between you two. You're not his only friend. If he wants to talk to you, that's up to him, but you're not doing yourself any good running after him."

"He's not going to talk to anyone," Bobby said, pulling his hand away. "Who else is he going to go to, Wolverine? Because that'll help. He's going to sit and brood and internalise until we wake up one morning and it's him in the freezer."

"Not everyone makes for the freezer when they're depressed."

"It'd be homelike."

"We have to take you to Canada one day." Warren grinned. "You're too good, you know that? You're heart's too big."

"I pushed him out of a window," Bobby said. Warren opened his mouth, but Bobby waved him down. "Yes, some of this is about guilt. That doesn't make it a bad thing. I fucked up."

"You can't feel guilty forever, Bobby."

"How about I just stay in love with him forever?" Bobby stood up. "It didn't even take me this long to get over Lorna." He opened and closed his mouth. He let his head fall back, took a deep breath, and huffed it out. "All I want for Christmas is my snarky Canadian athlete boyfriend."

"Do you want to go to the strip club before or after Christmas?"

"I wasn't dropping hints!"

And he left to find Jean Paul.

* * *

Overall, this wasn't a bad frame of mind to go snarky Canadian athlete ex-boyfriend hunting. He felt good from talking to Warren.

After the cold and lonely night in the bath tub (would it have killed JP to make just one little attempt to persuade him back?) Bobby had had to face certain truths. It was going to be a long time before JP got less attractive. No matter what people could say about Bobby's other relationships, this one he well and truly had fucked up all by himself. JP was still attracted to him, as well, but had pride. Or a good sense of self-preservation. Bobby had never had much of either, so he didn't feel in a position to distinguish.

He was on the roof, no surprise. Hoping he'd steeled himself sufficiently emotionally, Bobby stepped out to join him.

"Hey."

Jean Paul turned to face him. There was a slump in his shoulders Bobby didn't like to see, and damp tracks down his face. Every resolution Bobby had ever possessed shattered, and he started to move towards him, desperate to hold him.

Jean Paul took a step back. Bobby froze.

"Hi," Jean Paul said, voice hoarse.

"Your sister." Bobby couldn't articulate himself further. His hands clenched in useless fists.

Jean Paul laughed, cold and empty. He started to cough. He turned to the rail that separated them from the tiles, and bent over it.

"She's worse?"

Jean Paul nodded. Bobby walked up to join him.

Jean Paul tensed, and sighed. "She is still... divided. Strongly. There has been no sign of Jeanne Marie or Aurora. But that... that is to be expected. It is not so much that news, tonight."

"Then…" Bobby's fingers twitched, and after a moment of internal argument, he placed a hand on the small of Jean Paul's back. The other man was hot.

"It is a ridiculous, little thing."

"It's really, really upsetting you," Bobby pointed out.

Jean Paul twitched beneath his hand. Bobby removed it. Jean Paul's shoulders fell a little further.

"I am forbidden to visit until some progress is made. I seem to make things worse." His words were clipped. His knuckles were white where he was clenching the rail. "I forget, sometimes. Jeanne-Marie did not accept my sexuality. I did not accept Aurora's. No wonder that she has no love for me now."

"What are you going to do?" Bobby turned so he was leaning on the rail. He could not look at Jean Paul face to face, but this was closer.

"I do not know. Stay away. Spend my Christmas with Summers." Jean Paul's mouth twisted.

"You could come to mine."

Jean Paul's head turned slowly. Bobby half expected some sort of grating, clicking noise. Other than that, his mind was blank. Horribly, irritatingly blank.

"Your… parents?"

"Yes."

"Your father who does not like mutants. Who especially does not like homosexuals. Who no doubt will turn out not to like Canadians."

Bobby snorted. "Just Winter Olympics athletes," he said. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I said it. You just… what you said about Jeanne Marie. I'm not sure if I can tell my parents. Ever."

"That is not a coherent reason."

"Moral support? Access to a really quick getaway?" Bobby smiled hopefully.

"The offer is appreciated, Bobby, but deemed idiotic." Jean Paul sniffed, and looked down his nose at Bobby. Bobby couldn't bring himself to mind, and smiled some more. At least Jean Paul seemed to be feeling a little better.

"Yeah," he said, "it's a dumb offer. But it's staying open. I don't think anyone should spend Christmas alone."

"I have grown rather used to it."

Bobby sighed, and put his hand back on Jean Paul's lower back.

"Big, traditional, family Christmas. My mother will actually succeed in filling you up. My father will offend you in ways you did not know you could be offended. There'll probably be some football."

"You deserved better than this, Bobby," Jean Paul said, stepping closer to him. He placed a hand on Bobby's shoulder, and rested his chin on Bobby's forehead. "You should have married your high school sweetheart, and live in a little cottage with a white picket fence, and some very cheerful children."

Bobby shook his head, dislodging Jean Paul.

"I'd have been bored and trapped and my father," he said. "And a little freaked out that I was apparently reliving the end of _Little Shop of Horrors_."

"The musical, not the original."

"Well, of course. You didn't mention any giant alien plants eating New York." Bobby looked up at his ex. He had one arm almost around him, and he reached the other hand down to entwine in Jean Paul's. He could still see the strange, smooth tear tracks. He lowered his head, manoeuvred himself so both arms were around his ex, and hugged him. After a moment, Jean Paul hugged back.

"J'ai manqué ceci."

"You have to stop using language I don't understand," Bobby said.

"I missed this."

"So did I."

Jean Paul pressed his nose to Bobby's hair. "What happens if I say yes to your suggestion?"

"This doesn't," Bobby said. "Nothing happens. I spend several days pretending to be very straight, and not daring to touch you in even the least sexual of ways."

"That sounds… safe."

Bobby kept his mouth shut. It wasn't safe. It wasn't safe at all. It would be days of torture, worse than at the mansion by miles. No distractions. No space. No missions.

He tried to put out the flame in his stomach. That little explosive burst of hope, that rekindled everything he still couldn't put behind him. Jean Paul was not an idiot. Jean Paul had already expressed his opinion of Bobby's suggestion considering their history.

Christmas was romantic, right? And everything else… they'd just be excuses. Something to blame it on if it didn't look like it was going to work.

He let go of Jean Paul, trying not to smile too broadly.

* * *

There was this hole where his thoughts ought to be. No, not his thoughts, her thoughts. Just a hole. His sister had never been so cut off from him. He could not think. He could not even try to. A black hole. And now he could not even be with her physically.

Bobby was talking to him. He was aware he was replying. For a moment, Bobby almost succeeded in pulling him out of the hole. It was nice. But it was Bobby.

He wasn't sure how it happened. He had been vaguely aware of increasing physical contact. And then Bobby had his arms around him.

The sob was too fast for Bobby to register. He wrapped himself around Bobby, and clung on.

"J'ai manqué ceci." He could barely hear himself past the rushing in his head. It did not even make much sense.

"You have to stop using language I don't understand."

Jean Paul swallowed. He tried not to squeeze Bobby tighter. "I missed this," he breathed. He had.

"So did I."

The admission hurt him physically. His heart thudded too fast. But… of course Bobby missed this. Bobby was someone who liked physical contact. Bobby was not meant to be single for long.

He buried his face in Bobby's hair, taking a long, deep breath. He would not get another chance. He could not allow himself it. Bobby was not meant to be single; he had to let go. He was being selfish.

"What happens if I say yes to your suggestion?"

So he could say no. That was why he asked.

"This doesn't. Nothing happens. I spend several days pretending to be very straight, and not daring to touch you in even the least sexual of ways."

"That sounds… safe." Jean Paul lied, lacking even the energy to be sarcastic.

The x-men would not allow him to be alone at Christmas. He knew that. But it would be the wrong sort of not alone. Instead, he would be alone among them, and no doubt irritated and upset by attempts to include him.

He had to let go. He had to let Bobby get on with his life. He couldn't keep pretending that Bobby could fill the space his sister left. Bobby had left his own space.

But family. A family Christmas. He'd never had one. Even with Jeanne Marie. Even with Joanne. No doubt it would not live up to his imagination. The food would not be as good as he imagined. The rush of gift-opening would be short and unfulfilling. Disappointing, too, when he learns he has chosen wrong and knows he is being lied to. There would be fights. Tears. Drunkenness and prejudice.

He wasn't sure if he was thinking of a Christmas with his sister and daughter, or with Bobby's family.

Try as he might, he could not imagine hating it as he would staying at the mansion.

"If you are sure," he said, and tried to remember how to let go of Bobby.


	25. part twentyfive

**Part Twenty-Five**

Bobby made a point of calling home when he knew only his mother would be in. The probability either of his parents would recognise Jean Paul's name was low, but if they did, he wanted his mother to catch on first. Though she'd probably catch on too much: "Hi, mom, I'm bringing this famously gay man home for Christmas because I feel sorry for him. What do you mean, am I gay too?"

Christ, it really would all just get easier if he came out. At least he'd know where he stood. But that thought clutched at him, and for a brief moment he wondered if the ice was back. He stood, holding the phone, waiting for the panic to subside. Not yet. He couldn't do it yet. They'd be furious. They'd be upset. They'd be worried.

They wouldn't - and he knew this, rationally, knew it when he thought about it with his brain instead of his heart, and yet he couldn't believe it, didn't have the faith - stop loving him.

Jean Paul rounded the corner in the corridor, and frowned. Bobby forced a smile, and lowered the phone, though he didn't let go of it.

"I was about to call mom," he explained. "Let her know you're coming."

"That is very thoughtful of you," Jean Paul said, looking at the carpet. There was a faint blur, and Bobby watched his suddenly ruffled hair float back into place. "If it is too much trouble..." Jean Paul began.

"It's not," Bobby said, and sternly reminded himself that it wasn't. "It'll be great. Mom will love having another mouth to feed." That hadn't come out quite right, but he stretched his mouth a little further, to try and indicate he was joking. Jean Paul gave him an odd look. Bobby's faux-smile failed.

"I will not come," Jean Paul said.

Bobby dropped the phone to grab Jean Paul by both arms. Jean Paul looked a little startled. Bobby felt like an idiot. He did not let go.

"I want you there," Bobby said slowly. "For all the wrong reasons, I'm aware of that, but there's a few right ones in there too, I'm sure of it. I don't... I can't bear the idea of you sitting here being miserable all holiday. There will be good things about coming, I swear. Better food, for a start."

"And better company," Jean Paul said, a faint smile gracing his lips. Bobby wanted to kiss them, badly.

"And some worse," he made himself say. He was under no illusions about his father's potential reaction. "I'm sorry."

"Do not be sorry for other people," Jean Paul told him. "Let them be sorry for themselves, or if they are not, let them be condemned for it."

"That's..." Bobby's face twisted, "... quite harsh. He is my dad."

"I apologise, I did not mean-" Jean Paul looked concerned.

Bobby shook his head. "Nah, you're right. I condemn him for it myself sometimes; really it was just that guilt talking. The thing is, if you can get him to see past that - or not see it at all, but I know you won't stand for that - you two could really get on well."

Jean Paul tensed under Bobby's hands, and Bobby let go of him. Something flashed across Jean Paul's face, but Bobby had given up trying to decipher his too-quick emotions. Besides, he had a sinking feeling it was regret, or maybe longing, and there was only so much temptation Bobby could put up with.

"Maybe I could-"

"No." His own vehemence surprised Bobby. "Don't, just for his sake. If you're going to start doing that, you might as well stay here, because it really would be more painful to watch you pretend to be someone else for my sake. You know I don't deserve that." He was angry. He was angry with Jean Paul. How could he imply he might be forgiving Bobby? How could he be so fickle, how could he let go of his principles so easily? How could even the faintest hint that there might be hope for the two of them yet escape his lips?

"You do not deserve the attempt to mollify your father, or you do not deserve the pain?" Jean Paul asked.

Bobby stared at him.

Jean Paul sighed. "I shall come, and I shall be myself. Are you satisfied? I shall probably ruin your Christmas. Will that assuage your guilt, your self blame, your little festering martyr complex? Will you be able to live with yourself again?"

"I can live with myself. I live with myself every day," Bobby blurted. "I don't know how. I shouldn't!"

"Robert, if you had not reacted so violently, I would be the one mired in guilt. You would have broken up with me, for betraying you like that. Instead, I have been wandering these halls, allowing myself to remain angry at you because I do not wish to look at my own actions. You overreacted, but I did provoke you."

"And what if it happens again?" Bobby asked, the feel of hot tears behind his eyes almost comforting, even though he had purportedly been cured for some time now. "What if you, or someone else, says something that pisses me off? Betrays me for my own good? If I had iced you, I could have killed you. Frozen you and shattered you."

Jean Paul looked faintly alarmed. "I had not realised your powers had quite that scope," he admitted. "Regardless, you did not. You must take into account your own mitigating circumstances. You were very sick."

"Did I have ice on the brain? Was I incapable of rational thought?" Bobby demanded. "Of course not. That was me, JP, all me, and don't you dare forgive me for it. Don't be that weak."

Jean Paul swallowed. "Maybe this is not such a good idea," he said softly. "I will spend-"

Bobby grabbed the phone from where it was still hanging against the wall. He dialled the number still glowering at Jean Paul. The ringing only made him tenser, until that sudden, blessed, never-so-appreciated click and recorded voice of the answering machine.

"Hi, mom, it's Bobby," he said, trying to keep his voice under control. "I'm just calling to let you know I'm bringing a friend back with me for Christmas. He's got nowhere else to go. I hope you don't mind; you always said I was welcome to. Call me if there's a problem. Love to you and dad, bye."

And he put the phone back on the hook, turned his back on Jean Paul, and walked away.

* * *

"Have you ever considered the damage your ice slides might do?" Jean Paul asked.

The silence had been painfully awkward, it was true, but that _really_ hadn't been how he intended to start a conversation.

The New York countryside rambled away below them, hints of heavy frost visible even from up here. It had't snowed yet, but the air was crisp and the clouds heavy. A white Christmas was nothing too special for Jean Paul, but even he liked the idea.

And that would have been a far better conversation opener. Way to break the ice, so to speak.

Rather than criticising Bobby's only method of mutant transport in mid-use. It must have sounded like he was hoping to carry Bobby.

"I melt them as I go along," Bobby replied. "See?"

Jean Paul glanced back, to see the sweeping, roller-coaster-esque curve dissolving in the weak light. Not merely to water, either.

"Not that it could make much difference at this time of year," Bobby said, "but your point is duly noted."

"I suppose it also prevents a person from following you so easily," Jean Paul commented.

Bobby shrugged. "A bit, but I'm still not intending on sliding right up to the front door, you know? Just because the world knows who I am is no reason to go _inviting_ trouble."

Jean Paul had a sneaking suspicion that he was being goaded. Of course, he agreed with Bobby here: no matter what the parallels, there were _some_ differences between being outed as gay and outed as a mutant, especially as a superhero. Jean Paul couldn't quite see Magneto hunting down Bobby's parents just because of his sexuality. Jean Paul had met people who would, but most of them didn't have their own country.

He hadn't decided yet quite how he would approach the situation in Bobby's house. If asked, he would be honest, obviously. He had no intention of lying. But whether, should the conversation take such a direction, he should simply keep his mouth shut? It wasn't like him, and he knew it. But what were his alternatives?

It turned out, he didn't even have that one. Bobby's father was standing on the porch, and frowned at him as the two of them approached.

"Northstar," he said, with a voice that suggested he knew more than enough about Jean Paul already.

"Hey, dad," Bobby said, dropping his case on the step. "How's things?"

Mr Drake took his eyes from Jean Paul long enough to give his son a tight hug. Bobby visibly relaxed.

"Things are good," Mr Drake said. "You know, when you invite a guest to our house, it's polite to tell us his name."

"Sounds like you already know it," Bobby said. He pulled away from his father, and picked up his case again. Jean Paul swapped his to his other side and offered Mr Drake his hand.

"William," said Mr Drake.

"Jean Paul," said Jean Paul.

"You are that... skier, from Canada, aren't you?" William Drake said.

Jean Paul nodded. "Though not for some years now."

William turned, and led them into the house. "You're in the guest room," he said. "Bobby will show you."

Jean Paul followed Bobby up a narrow flight of stairs. At the top, Bobby turned to him, and pointed along the landing.

"Mom must have told him to watch his language," he said. "That's your room. Bathroom's opposite. Just dump your stuff for now; mom'll be wanting to meet you."

"How did he learn that it was me who you invited?" Jean Paul asked, moving in the indicated directions. Bobby was leaning around a door to chuck his bag into a room that still had "Bobby's Hideout: Private" on the door.

"Dunno," Bobby said. Jean Paul opened the door to his own room, and stepped inside. Bobby followed him. "Oh, new sheets," Bobby said.

It was a nice room: large and airy, inoffensively magnolia. The bed, chest of drawers and wardrobe were painted white; the carpet, curtains and sheets were pale green. There was a print on the wall by an artist Jean Paul recognised, but couldn't name, and some wax fruit on top of the chest of drawers. There was a pine-tree-shaped, apple-pie-scented room freshener hanging from the wardrobe door knob.

"Dad does watch a lot of sports," Bobby said. "Maybe he recognised you from the Winter Olympics, whenever you last participated."

"That was a very long time ago," Jean Paul sighed. "Even I would not recognise myself from the publicity shots then. No, Robert, he knew I was coming before we arrived. I am sure of it."

"Maybe I mentioned you in a previous call, or something, and mom figured it out." Bobby shrugged. "Is it really a big deal?"

"He must know that I am gay," Jean Paul said.

Bobby rolled his eyes. "I figured that out. Mom obviously has him on a bit of a short leash about it, so what are you worrying about? Oh, I know where he recognises you from! The court case, remember? After the first time we had coffee."

Jean Paul nodded, unable to help the smile. "Oui," he said, "that must be it. I suppose it does make things easier, overall."

"Of course it does," Bobby said. "Come on, we better get downstairs. Um. Mom's cookies are not something to be missed."

That 'um', Jean Paul thought, contained Bobby's complete recognition of the problem they now faced. Jean Paul hoped Bobby was ready to come out to his parents, because it didn't look as though he was going to have a choice, before this vacation was over.


	26. part twentysix

**Part Twenty Six**

It didn't seem to matter how much Jean Paul ate; there was always food on his plate. Well, vegetables, anyway. Their source was easily discovered, and Jean Paul was amused at how unsubtle Bobby was at relocating them from his plate. Apparently he hadn't inherited his mother's genes in that area, since she was having no trouble making fresh vegetables arrive on Bobby's plate as fast as the unsuspecting Bobby removed them. And she still had time to offer Jean Paul more turkey, and more ham, and more potatoes, and more everything. Bobby hadn't been joking about how much his mother cooked.

Jean Paul stayed quiet - well, he _was_ eating - and listened to the ebb and flow of conversation around him. It was what he'd expected, he told himself, and he was as much keeping quiet for having no input as for not attracting attention to himself.

Bobby's family talked about family. An obvious choice of topic for this time of year. They talked about Mrs Drake's parents and Mr Drake's parents, about Mrs Drake's brothers and sisters and Mr Drake's brothers and sisters, about Mrs Drake's brothers and sisters' children, and Mr Drake's brothers and sisters' children, about Mrs Drake's parents' siblings and Mr Drake's parents' siblings. They talked about everybody's spouses, and the spouses' siblings and parents and children. Bobby had two uncles and three aunts (and two aunts-by-marriage and two uncles-by-marriage, and what might have been an aunt-by-lesbianism, but she was only mentioned in passing, and with some disapproval). He had seven first cousins on his mother's side, Jean Paul gathered, and four on his father's. He had twelve second cousins, and three first cousins once removed. He had two great aunts and one senile great uncle, and one surviving great grandparent.

Jean Paul knew and understood that Bobby was a family orientated man, but his head was beginning to spin. He wondered if this was normal, if this was what a normal family was like. So many generations - so many_cousins_ - all within easy travel of each other. Every holiday carefully parcelled out each year to a different house, with everyone descending en masse. Bobby seemed to have spent most of his childhood holidays with some family or other. So many names. So many Roberts, of one variation or another. Everybody's _birthdays_.

And Christmas, just the three Drakes and one interloper. A lonely man, with so little family in comparison.

No, he wasn't going to get maudlin. Self pity was hardly attractive.

Not that he wanted to be attractive towards anyone here.

He couldn't stop listening. He couldn't stop cataloguing names and relationships with a greedy, hungry envy. He couldn't silence the tiny part of his mind that knew exactly how to become part of it, too. Thanksgivings and Fourth of Julys and Labour Days and New Years and Christmases and summers, huge long summers full of lakes and barbeques and campouts.

Of course, it wouldn't work. All he'd do would be cut Bobby off from it, not invite himself in. He wouldn't be selfish. He wouldn't be jealous. He wouldn't be so fucking pathetic as to prostrate himself before Bobby just to be part of this. Just because he was lonely. Because his one and only sister was too sick to speak to him, or be spoken to.

"We normally take a break before dessert," Mrs Drake was telling him. "Move to the den and watch a Christmas movie."

Jean Paul smiled at her. "Would you like some help with the washing up?" he asked.

"Oh, you can bring this one home any time," Mrs Drake informed her son, smiling back at Jean Paul.

Well, it was a start.

* * *

It occurred to Bobby that it probably hadn't been very sensitive to talk about family over Christmas dinner. Too late now, but it was going to bug him for the rest of the day. He hadn't started the conversation, and he'd been unable to stop it. He'd just been so grateful that it wasn't going to lead to his parents questioning Jean Paul about their friendship, or anything else, that he hadn't changed the subject.

Safe areas of conversation had been established the previous night, as Jean Paul and Bobby's father had tentatively made conversation about sports. Jean Paul's general disinterest in ice hockey - "That is why I have to live in this country now," - and Bobby's youthful desire to be a bobsledder. Football, baseball, a little basketball. Some soccer. Golf, surprisingly.

Safe, for the most part. Carefully not talking about why Jean Paul didn't ski any more.

Business, too, that had been good. Until his mother put a stop to all the "shop talk". Well, two accountants and a self made man probably did make rather boring listening for a dyed-in-the-wool housewife.

And family had seemed fairly safe, even if it wasn't a conversation Jean Paul could join in. Except... Jeanne Marie.

What else was there? What else was safe?

Bobby gazed at the opening sequence of some James Bond film or other in disinterest, wracking his brain for something that could not, in any way, lead to discussion of anyone's sexuality. The problem was that so many subjects seemed safe to Bobby, but he knew they wouldn't to his father. Jean Paul's sexuality was the sum of his personality, as far as Mr Drake was concerned, and though Bobby felt sure his father was beginning to grasp that there was whole areas of Jean Paul's life completely unimpacted by who he chose to sleep with, there were just as many that were. His fame. His lifestyle. Teaching at the academy. His book. His career as a superhero. His friendship with Bobby. His family, his daughter.

"Jean Paul was telling me about your trip to DC recently," Mrs Drake said, as she led Jean Paul into the room. Both were carrying trays of Christmas cookies, and despite how full Bobby was he helped himself to two.

Jean Paul sat in the armchair not currently occupied by Bobby's father, and leant towards the sofa where Bobby's mom took her accustomed seat. They continued talking in hushed tones, the cookies on the coffee table between them. Bobby, sitting on the floor, found himself shuffling towards Jean Paul's shins. When he got close Jean Paul handed him a cookie, which he ate without revealing that he'd actually been trying to hear their conversation better.

They were talking about the rest of the world now, France and Europe mainly. Bobby knew his parents were saving for a trip once his father was in full health, but hadn't decided where to go. Jean Paul was currently making Italy sound "absolutely charming" and "so beautiful".

"What about Canada?" Madeline Drake asked. "My sister is thinking of taking her brood up there."

Jean Paul grimaced wryly. "I do not know what might suit a 'brood'," he said, "but Montreal is probably my favourite city. I have an apartment there, if you ever wish to spend a holiday weekend, perhaps."

"Did you hear that, William? Jean Paul has an apartment in Montreal."

"This is a good time of year there," Jean Paul added. "Your hospitality has been so... so generous, that I would be remiss if I did not offer the little I have to you."

"Are all your friends millionaires, Bobby?" Mr Drake asked, eyes still on the television.

"Quite a few," Bobby admitted. "I don't know what _I'm_ doing wrong."

Jean Paul snorted. "You are a very skilled accountant. The only reason you are not as wealthy is those that employ is your strange inability to charge them for your services."

"They're not going to pay me, because they don't take me seriously," Bobby said, more bitterly than he'd intended. "Warren has his own accountants, not that he ever speaks to them, and Xavier has that firm in New York keeping an eye on most of the academy accounts. I'm just... back up. A convenient source of advice."

"There is no reason it should be so," Jean Paul said. "I understand the discomfort in charging people, especially friends, for what they see as favours, but you are being taken for granted."

"That's exactly what I always say," Mr Drake said. "Bobby needs a bit more backbone."

"Bobby is too _nice_," Jean Paul agreed, "no matter what he thinks of himself."

"Hey!" Bobby stared back and forth between them, eyes eventually settling on Jean Paul despite the neckache. "I think of myself just fine, thank you. There's no such thing as "too nice", besides. And I don't_want_ to charge people like Warren and Scott, or the Academy. I get by just fine."

"So_many_ arguments," Jean Paul teased. "Where are you going to draw the lines, though? How do you decide between the friends you charge and those you do not? If you become friends with a client, do you stop charging them?"

"So_many_ questions," Bobby shot back. "Why so concerned? I don't charge you for my professional advice, do I?"

"I would pay for it," Jean Paul said mildly. "I should, with the amount you have earned me."

Bobby opened his mouth, but his mother cut into the conversation with what Bobby deemed to be the least helpful change of subject possible.

"So, Jean Paul, how would you be spending Christmas in Canada?"

There was a moment's silence.

"I do not really know," Jean Paul said. "If all was well, with my sister, I suppose."

"Is she spending Christmas with someone else?" Mrs Drake asked, smiling. Bobby shuffled closer to Jean Paul's chair, and learnt against his leg.

"She is unwell," Jean Paul said quietly. "She has Mult- she has DID. She is staying with professionals over Christmas. I was advised not to visit her."

A hand came down, and clamped onto Bobby's shoulder, as his mother made uncomfortable noises of sympathy. Bobby put his hand over Jean Paul's, and squeezed gently.

"We rarely spend Christmas together," Jean Paul went on. "Sometimes our careers interfere, and often our tempers."

"Isn't that the point, though?" Bobby said quietly. "Spending time with people whether you're fighting or not. And, you know, all that Jesus stuff." The joke was poor, and Bobby could feel his parents' disapproving eyes on him.

"My sister, Jeanne Marie, is Catholic," Jean Paul said. "I am... not. I suspect no scenario could truly please both of us."

The film broke for commercials. Bobby's mother excused herself to do something with the desserts, and Bobby's father disappeared towards the bathroom. Bobby took the opportunity to climb to his feet and perch on the arm of Jean Paul's chair. He kept Jean Paul's hand in his, rubbing his thumb across Jean Paul's knuckles.

"I'm sorry," Bobby said softly. "We've been talking about family all day. It's insensitive."

Jean Paul shook his head. "It is interesting. I had not realised how different my life was from yours." He smiled weakly at Bobby. "I admit it, I am a little jealous."

Bobby wrapped an arm around Jean Paul and hugged him to his chest. Jean Paul was unresisting, and Bobby manoeuvred himself so one foot was resting on the seat behind Jean Paul. There was a lump in his throat, chokingly large, and a craving in his heart that was almost unbearable. He wasn't even sure if it was beating. He pressed his face to the top of Jean Paul's head, nose to that distinguished hair.

"So much family," Jean Paul said, voice muffled by Bobby's festive frosty-the-snowman sweater. "And I might have parted you from it."

Bobby shook his head. "No. Things might be a little strained, but they will handle it. They might even have made you part of it, eventually."

Bobby pulled away just before his father re-entered the room. Jean Paul's eyes were a little red, but it faded quickly. Bobby stayed where he was on the arm of the chair, Jean Paul leaning against his leg. They watched the rest of the film in relative silence.

* * *

Jean Paul hadn't realised quite how much alcohol a family Christmas entailed. There'd been Buck's Fizz with breakfast; wine with every meal; sherry, port and brandy in the spaces between; and now they were onto the liqueurs. Madeline was a little tipsy, William had fallen asleep, and Bobby was trying so very hard not to look drunk in front of his parents. Jean Paul found it alarmingly endearing.

His own metabolism meant he was staying mostly sober, but somewhere in between the cherry liqueur and the "we really ought to finish off this sherry Natasha gave us last Christmas" everything had become pleasantly warm and just a little distant. Bobby was no longer sitting on the arm of his chair, but he was leaning against Jean Paul's legs and playing with his sock. Every now and then he succeeded in tickling Jean Paul, making him jerk and twitch.

William Drake began to snore, and Madeline's laugh was rather more a titter. She woke her husband up, and they said their goodnights. Jean Paul wasn't entirely sure why he and Bobby weren't going to bed too, but there was an opened-but-undrunk bottle of _something_ standing on top of the television, and what he presumed to be one of the Harry Potter films underneath it.

Bobby hauled himself over to the television and retrieved the mystery bottle. He giggled at it, and crawled back to the chair.

"Coffee liqueur," he said, waving it at Jean Paul and spilling a little on his trousers. "Oops." He licked a finger and rubbed at the small stain, but before Jean Paul could assure him it was fine, he'd changed his mind and applied his mouth.

The shin, Jean Paul told himself sternly, does not have any erogenous zones. Being sucked on the shin was not at all sexy. Slobbered on through his trousers.

"It's good," Bobby said.

Jean Paul blinked at him, and shook his head. "Hand me your glass," he said. The tumbler had already seen a small measure of disliked brandy, a large measure of cherry liqueur, and the remains of the red wine, and Jean Paul had stopped wincing each time the latest beverage mingled with the dregs of the previous. It was quite nice not to care, actually. He remembered not caring about things like that, long ago. Before even Raymond. Before he'd learnt how his upbringing tainted him in the eyes of the judgemental more than his sexuality, more than his genes. He was just drunk enough to admit to himself that he'd built this image, these suits and this money and those manners, because he'd been tired of fighting it. Fighting them.

"Mais oui," he said softly. He had started a hundred other battles instead.

Bobby wrapped an arm around Jean Paul's legs, and cuddled him close, resting his head against Jean Paul's knee.

"Why can't I just tell them?" he asked the damp patch he'd made on Jean Paul's leg.

"You will," Jean Paul said, ruffling Bobby's hair.

"I won't," Bobby sighed. "I'm doing the exact opposite. Mom asked if you were my boyfriend, and I told her I wasn't interested in men."

Jean Paul's hand stilled. "That is a backward step," he admitted.

"I don't think she believed me," Bobby said. "I guess that's something." He looked up at Jean Paul. Leaning heavily on Jean Paul's no-longer-so-sturdy legs, he climbed to his feet and tried to take up his previous place on the arm of the chair. He wobbled rather dramatically, and slid not quite into Jean Paul's lap. Jean Paul shifted over, and Bobby settled next to him, their hips jammed together.

Jean Paul held up his glass of coffee liqueur, and Bobby obediently clinked his against it. "To a better year than the one before," he said, and drank.

Jean Paul was a little surprised by the toast, but drank to it thoughtfully. "To the best Christmas I have had in many years," he added.

"Despite-" Bobby gestured to the two of them, "-this?"

Jean Paul nodded, and quickly finished his drink. As he poured himself another, he topped Bobby up as well. He wanted to get Bobby drunk. He wanted to get Bobby so drunk he wouldn't remember anything in the morning. No, he wanted to get Bobby so drunk that there wouldn't be anything _to_ remember. He wanted to get Bobby drunk because he couldn't himself. He wanted drunk Bobby... to get Bobby... he wanted Bobby. He wanted Bobby so badly.

"Maybe I _am_ drunk," he said, staring at the glass of dark brown liquid closely. Something in his tone of voice made Bobby laugh.

"I would like you to be drunk," Bobby told him, resting an arm across Jean Paul's shoulders, drink in the hand at the other end of it. "I've always felt that, that the fact I haven't." He frowned. "I haven't seen you drunk," he said slowly. "And I didn't like that."

"Why not?" Jean Paul asked in some surprise.

"It made you different. Sort of..." Bobby waved his drink expansively, and spilt more on Jean Paul. They both looked at the stain, so very close to Jean Paul's crotch. There was a moment's silence. "Being drunk makes you vulnerable," Bobby said quietly. "I felt like you were never vulnerable, and it scared me."

"You make me feel vulnerable," Jean Paul said.

"It's different, when it's love," Bobby told him. "I mean, I meant vulnerable about the small things. Not... able to look after yourself as much. Dependent. I want to see you too drunk to walk. I want to see you telling people how much they mean to you. I want to see you singing like an idiot, or crying over something ridiculous, or getting angry at innocent people. I want to have to take you home and make sure you don't choke on your own vomit in your sleep and leave you water and painkillers so no matter how hungover you are you still smile, thinking of me. I want to be responsible for you, just occasionally." His voice was getting louder, cracking a little, powerful and desperate. He tightened his arm around Jean Paul's shoulders, pulling him awkwardly across for a hug.

Jean Paul pressed his head against Bobby's cheek, wrapping his arms as best he could around Bobby, obstructed by the back of the chair. When Bobby began to release him he pulled away and grabbed his glass of liqueur. It burned down the back of his throat, thick and strong, stinging the back of his eyes and making his head spin.

"You would look after me," he rasped. Bobby nodded, eyes bright and wet. Jean Paul shuddered, once, and said, "Please, Bobby."

"I want to be responsible," Bobby said. "I _am_ responsible."

"You are," Jean Paul said.

Bobby leant in and kissed him.

* * *

His metabolism was quickly chewing through the hangover, but he was sore and bruised. He felt like... he felt like he'd had bad sex.

Merde.

Jean Paul forced his eyes open, and turned his head, the headache inside it rolling over.

Bobby offered him a weak smile.

"I'm responsible," he said, "remember?"

Jean Paul nodded.

"You forfeited responsibility for your own actions," Bobby added. "You said you did. You wanted to."

Jean Paul smiled, though he didn't feel happy. "I remember." He'd given it so willingly, over and over. He'd let Bobby have complete control.

"You trusted me," Bobby said.

He had.

"You didn't... before," Bobby went on. "You know that? I hadn't realised at the time. You didn't trust me not to die."

"That would be a misplaced trust," Jean Paul pointed out, "in anyone."

"Yeah, but you let it get in the way of other trust," Bobby told him, prodding him in the chest. "Besides, you are meant to trust someone not to die. That's love. You're meant to trust in it to last forever. You were convinced I was going to leave you, one way or another."

"You did not trust me either," Jean Paul said, a little peeved. He knew Boxing Day was a traditional time for hangovers - even if he hadn't been able to explain to Madeline what Boxing Day _was_ - but complete emotional dissection was not usually part of the agenda.

"No, I did. I just didn't trust me." Bobby said. "Nobody trusts me, not with the important stuff."

"Your parents..." Jean Paul fell silent, not sure if this was a good avenue to pursue. Not when he was in their house, certainly, and not when Bobby seemed to be getting on well with them.

"Don't trust me?" Bobby finished for him. "They do, I think, but I'm their only child. They _want_ to baby me. I think they've always felt a bit left out, when everyone else has at least two kids, and then I went away at fourteen, and that hurt them. They've always treated me like I'm still fourteen, and I've acted up to it, and I've never known how to stop, so everyone treats me like a little kid." He paused, and added, "It doesn't make them bad parents. Just, you know, human."

He felt silent for a little while. Jean Paul propped himself up, and found a glass of water and some aspirin on the bedside table. He smiled with real cheer then.

The silence stretched out a little longer.

"We should probably talk about this," Bobby said at exactly the same time Jean Paul began, "There is a subject we are avoiding."

Bobby grimaced. "Please tell me you knew it would happen too," he said.

Jean Paul nodded. "As soon as you invited me. That does not make it a good idea, though."

"It doesn't mean it was a bad one, either," Bobby retorted. "Look, we can't keep denying that we're still attracted to each other. That we're still..."

"In love?" Jean Paul asked.

Bobby nodded. "I don't think I could have gone on much longer, feeling like that. Even just last night... If you said, now, that you still couldn't trust me and we still couldn't make it work, I think I'd be okay with it for a while. But it wouldn't last. And this would happen again, I'd find some way of make sure of it. Just to feel better, because I'm selfish that way."

Jean Paul chuckled. "I think you will find, mon cher, that I am capable of being far more selfish than you. I would seduce you far sooner than you I."

"But it's not just the sex," Bobby said. "In fact, the sex is still... it's still frightening."

"Frightening?" Jean Paul frowned at him. "I understand, alcohol does not make for the best night, but we have had-"

"We've had great sex," Bobby reassured him. "But, I dunno, I guess I'm still a bit old fashioned. I feel like I rushed it, and I want... I want some of it back. A do-over."

"We can take it as slowly as you like," Jean Paul said earnestly. He rolled onto his side and placed a hand on Bobby's bare chest. "There will be romance. Dates. There will be whatever you want." Bobby shifted towards him, taking Jean Paul's hand from his chest and holding it between his, eyes on Jean Paul's face. Jean Paul's heart leapt, and his stomach churned.

"I know that this is not how you saw your life," Jean Paul went on, hoping to persuade Bobby. "This is not what others expect for you. I... I cannot give you that life, but I will give you as much of it as I can. If you come to Canada, we will have even more freedom; we may marry, we may cohabit and 'ave all the rights of any 'eterosexual couple. We may 'ave a house, Rober', we may even adopt, if you wish to 'ave children-"

"I'm sorry, but your English seems to have failed you!" Bobby interrupted him. "Or does 'taking it slow' have a different meaning in Canada? I don't _want_ all that white picket fence stuff. Not yet, at any rate."

Jean Paul blinked and reviewed his ramblings. The panic that had been rising in his chest as he talked dissipated as Bobby clasped Jean Paul's hand firmly. His voice was calm and patient, and his tone sincere. He was serious.

"Can we start with a date?" Bobby asked. "Say, New Year's Eve?"

Jean Paul nodded, not quite sure if he could trust his mouth yet. Bobby smiled at him.

"I promise," he said, "I'll behave better this time. I know how hard it must be for you to take me back after what I did."

Jean Paul burst out laughing. "Oh, mon cher, it has been so hard not to." He pulled Bobby close - gently, so that Bobby might pull away if this was deemed 'too fast' - and held him to his chest, Bobby's head tucked under his chin. Bobby slid an arm over Jean Paul's waist, and kissed his breastbone tenderly. Jean Paul could feel Bobby's smile against his skin. Everything... everything was Right.

"Bobby, d'you know where... Oh."

William Drake stood in the doorway of the room.

Bobby disentangled himself from Jean Paul's grasp, and sat up.

"Um. Dad," he began. "There's something I should tell you."

_Well, folks, it's over. All finished! I'll probably go back and pick at some of the earier chapters, to sort out Amricanisms and geography and research and so on, at some point, but there shouldn't be any dramatic changes. Many thanks to everyone who reviewed, and who stuck with it despite the huge long gaps between updates._


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